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BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI 


OR, FREDERICK THE GREAT 
AND HIS FRIENDS 


An Historical Romance 


BY 
L. MUHLBACH 


AUTHOR OF JOSEPH Il. AND HIS COURT, FREDERICK THE CREAT AND HIS COURT, 
MERCHANT OF BERLIN, ETC. 


_ 'FRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY 
Mrs. CHAPMAN COLEMAN AND HER DAUGHTERS 


NEW YORK 


THE McCLURE CO. 
MCMX 


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CONTENTS. 


BOOK I. 
PAGE 
faar. I.—The Alchemist’s Incantation, . e ° ; 9 
Il.—The Old Courtier, . ‘ ° . 14 
I1I.—The Morning Hours of a King ° ° . o 
IV.—The Pardoned Courtier, ‘ 33 
V.—How the Princess Ulrica became Qiisen of Smeden, . 44 
ViI.—The Tempter, . ; : “ : 52 
VII.—The First Interview, ‘ ° . > ae 
VIII.—Signora Barbarina, . ; ; A - 72 
IX.—The King and Barbarina, ° . . wey at i; 
X.—Eckhof. ‘ ‘ SUK! <6 ° . 87 


XI.—A Life Question, . . . . : - 9 
XII.—Superstition and Piety, : . . . 102 


BOOK II. 
Cuap. 1.—The Two Sisters, . - A - - 114 
IIl.—The Tempter, . ° 122 
III.—The Wedding-Festival of the Princess Ulrice,. - 126 


IV.—Behind the Curtain, . i . ° . 131 
V.—A Shame-faced King, . . ° . - 135 
VI.—The First Rendezvous, A : . . 145 
VII.—On the Baleony, . é . ‘ “ - 149 
VII.—The First Cloud, ‘ . ° ° ‘ 157 
IX.—The Council of War, 4 5 e . - 168 
X.—The Cloister of Camens, ‘ ° ° e 172 
XI.—The King and the Abbot, . ° . . 178 
XII.—The Unknown Abbot, . ° : ° 184 
XIII.—The Levee of a Dancer, . é ° ° . 189 
XIV.—The Studio, . : : . . . 200 
XV.—The Cane, - e . - 208 


M 4! 501 


iv BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI. 


XVI.—The Traitor, . ‘ ° 
XVII.—The Silver-Ware, . F ‘ 
XVIII.—The First Flash of Lightning, 





BOOK III. 


Cuap. I.—The Actors in Halle, ‘ ° 
Il.—The Student Lupinus, ° 


III.—The Disturbance in the Theatre, | 


IV.—The Friends, . . 
V.—The Order of the tina: é ° 
VI—tThe Battle of Sohr, . ° 
VII.—After the Battle, . A ° 
VIII.—A Letter Pregnant with Fate, 
IX.—The Return to Berlin, . ° 
X.—Job’s Post, . . ° 
XI.—The Undeceived, . ° ° 
XII.—Trenck’s First Flight, ° 
XIII.—The Flight, . ° ‘ 
XIV.—* I will,” : 
XV.—The Last Struggle for Peeks . 
XVI.—The Disturbance in the Theatre, 
XVII.—Sans-Souci, ° ° ‘ 


eee ee 


BOOK IV. 


Cuap. I.—The Promise, . 
II.— Voltaire and his Royal Friend, . 
III.—The Confidence-Table, ° 


IV.—The Confidential Dinner, ° 
V.—Rome Sauvée,. ‘ ° 

VI.—A Woman’s Heart, ° ° 
VII.—Madame von Cocceji, ° 


VIII.—Voltaire, . : 
IX.—A Day in the Life of Voltaire, 
X.—The Lovers, s " ° 
XI.—Barbarina, . e e 
XII.—Intrigues, . ° ° 
XIII.—The Last Strugels, ‘ s 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; 
OR, 
FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


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CHAPTER I?’ °°? 
THE ALCHEMIST’S INCANTATION, 


Iv was a lovely May morning! The early rays of the 
sun had not withered the blossoms, or paled the fresh green 
of the garden of Charlottenburg, but quickened them into 
new life and beauty. The birds sang merrily in the groves. 
The wind, with light whispers, swept through the long 
avenues of laurel and orange trees, which surrounded the 
superb greenhouses and conservatories, and scattered far 
and wide throughout the garden clouds of intoxicating per- 
fume. 

The garden was quiet and solitary, and the closed shut- 
ters of the castle proved that not only the king, but the en- 
tire household, from the dignified and important chamber- 
lain to the frisky garden-boy, still slept. Suddenly the si- 
lence was broken by the sound of hasty steps. A young 
man, in simple citizen costume, ran up the great avenue 
which led from the garden gate to the conservatory; then 
cautiously looking about him, he drew near to a window of 
the lower story in a wing of the castle. The window was 
closed and secured with inside shutters; a small piece of 
white paper was seen between the glass and the shutter. 
A passer-by might have supposed this was accidental, 
but the young burgher knew that this little piece of paper 
was a signal. His light stroke upon the seine disturbed 


10 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


for a moment the deathlike silence around, but produced no 
other effect; he struck again, more loudly, and listened 
breathlessly. The shutters were slowly and cautiously 
opened from within, and behind the glass was seen the wan, 
sick face of Fredersdorf, the private secretary and favorite 
of the king. When he saw the young man, his features as- 
sumed a more animated expression, and a hopeful smile 
played upon his lip; hastily opening the window, he gave the 
youth his hand. “ Good-morning, Joseph,” said he; “I have 
not slept during the whole night, I was so impatient to re- 
; e ve news frorn.you; Has he shown himself?” 

*Joseph bowed his head sadly. “ He has not yet shown 
rhiaaole? che replied in a hollow voice; “all our efforts have 


°« ‘éénin vain; we laxe again sacrificed time, money, and 


strength. He has not yet appeared.” 

“ Alas!” cried Fredersdorf, “who could believe it so 
difficult to move the devil to appear in person, when he 
makes his presence known daily and hourly through the 
deeds of men? I must and will see him! He must and shall 
make known this mystery. He shall teach me how and of 
what to make gold.” 

“He will yield at last!” cried Joseph, solemnly. 

“What do you say? Will we succeed? Is not all hope. 
lost?” 

“All is not lost: the astrologer heard this night, during 
his incantations, the voice of the devil, and saw for one 
moment the glare of his eye, though he could not see his 
person.” 

“He saw the glare of his eye!” repeated Fredersdorf 
joyfully. “Oh, we will yet compel him to show himself 
wholly. He must teach us to make gold. And what said 
the voice of the devil to our astrologer?” 

“He said these words: ‘ Would you see my face and hear 
words of golden wisdom from my lips? so offer me, when 
next the moon is full and shimmers like liquid gold in the 
heavens, a black ram; and if you shed his blood for me, 
and if not one white Mair can be discovered upon him, I will 
appear and be subject to you.’” 

“ Another month of waiting, of patience, and of torture,” 
murmured Fredersdorf. “Four weeks to search for this 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. ji] 


black ram without a single white hair; it will be difficult to 
find! ” 

“ Oh, the world is large; we will send our messengers in 
every quarter; we will find it. Those who truly seek, find 
at last what they covet. But we will require much gold, 
and we are suffering now, unhappily, for the want of it.” 

“We? whom do you mean by we?” asked Fredersdorf, 
with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. 

“T, in my own person, above all others, need gold. You 
can well understand, my brother, that a student as I am has 
no superfluous gold, even to pay his tailor’s bills,much less to 
buy black rams. Captain Kleist, in whose house the assem- 
bly meets to-night, has already offered up far more valuable 
things than a score of black rams; he has sacrificed his 
health, his rest, and his domestic peace. His beautiful wife 
finds it strange, indeed, that he should seek the devil every 
night everywhere else than in her lovely presence.” 

“Yes, I understand that! The bewitching Madame 
Kleist must ever remain the vain-glorious and coquettish 
Louise von Schwerin; marriage has infused no water in her 
veins.” 

“ No! but it has poured a river of wine in the blood of 
her husband, and in this turbid stream their love and happi- 
ness is drowned. Kleist is but a corpse, whom we must soon 
bury from our sight. The king has made separation and di- 
vorce easy; yes, easier tha’ marriage. Is it not so, my broth- 
er? Ah, you blush; you find that your light-hearted brother 
has more observant eyes thei. you thought, and sees that 
which you intended to conceal. Yes, yes! I have indeed 
seen that you have been wounded by Cupid’s arrow, and that 
your heart bleeds while our noble king refuses his consent 
to your marriage.” 

“ Ah, let me once discover this holy mystery—once learn 
how to make gold, and I will have no favor to ask of any 
earthly monarch; I shall acknowledge no other sovereign 
than my own will.” 

“ And to become the possessor of this secret, and your 
own master, you require nothing but a black ram. Create 
for us, then, my powerful and wealthy brother, a black ram, 
and the work is done! ” 


12 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ Alas! to think,” cried Fredersdorf, “that I cannot 
absent myself; that I must fold my hands and wait silently 
and quietly! What slavery is this! but you, you are not in 
bondage as I am. The whole world is before you; you can 
seek throughout the universe for this blood-offering de- 
manded by the devil.” 

“Give us gold, brother, and we will seek; without gold, 
no black ram; without the black ram, no devil! ” 

Fredersdorf disappeared a moment and returned with a 
well-filled purse, which he handed to his brother. “ There, 
take the gold; send your messengers in every quarter; go 
yourself and search. You must either find or create him. 
I swear to you, if you do not succeed, I will withdraw my 
protection from you; you will be only a poor student, and 
must maintain yourself by your studies.” 

“That would be a sad support, indeed,” said the young 
man, smiling. “I am more than willing to choose another 
path in life. I would, indeed, prefer being an artist to being 
a philosopher.” 

“ An artist!” cried Fredersdorf, contemptuously; “ have 
you discovered in yourself an artist’s vein?” 

“Yes; or rather, Eckhof has awakened my sleeping 
talent.” 

“ Eckhof—who is Eckhof?” 

“How? you ask who is Eckhof? You know not, then, 
this great, this exalted artist, who arrived here some weeks 
since, and has entranced every one who has a German heart 
in his bosom, by his glorious acting? I saw him a few days 
since in Golsched’s Cato. Ah! my brother, on that evening 
it was clear to me that I also was born for something greater 
than to sit in a lonely study, and seek in musty books for 
useless scraps of knowledge. No! I will not make the world 
still darker and mistier for myself with the dust of ancient 
books; I will illuminate my world by the noblest of all arts 
—I will become an actor!” 

“Fantastic fool!” said his brother. “A German actor ! 
that is to say, a beggar and a vagabond! who wanders from 
city to city, and from village to village, with his stage finery, 
who is laughed at everywhere, even as the monkeys are 
laughed at when they make their somersets over the camels’ 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 13 


backs; it might answer to be a dancer, or, at least, a French 
actor.” 

“Tt is true that the German stage is a castaway—a Cin- 
derella—thrust aside, and clothed with sackcloth and ashes, 
while the spoiled and petted step-child is clothed in gold- 
embroidered robes. Alas! alas! it is a bitter thing that the 
French actors are summoned by the king to perform in the 
royal castle, while Schénemein, the director of the German 
theatre, must rent the Council-house for a large sum of 
money, and must pay a heavy tax for the permission to give 
to the German public a German stage. Wait patiently, 
brother, all this shall be changed, when the mystery of mys- 
teries is discovered, when we have found the black rum! 
I bless the accident which gave me a knowledge of your 
secret, which forced you to receive me as a member in order 
to secure my silence. I shall be rich, powerful, and influ- 
ential; I will build a superb theatre, and fill the German 
heart with wonder and rapture.” 

“Well, well, let us first understand the art of making 
gold, and we will make the whole world our theatre, and all 
mankind shall play before us! Hasten, therefore, brother, 
hasten! By the next full moon we will be the almighty 
rulers of the earth and all that is therein! ” 

“ Always provided that we have found the black ram.” 

“We will find him! If necessary, we will give his 
weight in gold, and gold can do all things. Honor, love, 
power, position, and fame, can all be bought with gold! 
Let us, then, make haste to be rich. To be rich is 
to be independent, free, and gloriously happy. Go, my 
brother, go! and may you soon return crowned with suc- 
cess.” 

“T have still a few weighty questions to ask. In the first 
place, where shall I go?” 

“To seek the black ram—it makes no difference where.” 

“ Ah! it makes no difference! You do not seem to re- 
member that the vacation is over, that the professors of the 
University of Halle have threatened to dismiss me if my 
attendance is so irregular. I must, therefore, return to 
Halle to-day, or—” 

“Return to Halle to-day!” cried Fredersdorf, with hor- 


14 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCTI; OR, 


ror. “That is impossible! You cannot return to Halle, 
unless you have already found what we need.” - 

“ And that not being the case, I shall not return to Halle; 
T shall be dismissed, and will cease to be a student. Do you 
consent, then, that I shall become an actor, and take the 
great Eckhof for my only professor?” 

“Yes, I consent, provided the command of the alche- 
mist is complied with.” 

“ And how if the alchemist, notwithstanding the blood 
of the black ram, is unhappily not able to bring up the 
devil?” 

At this question, a feverish crimson spot took possession 
of the wan cheek of Fredersdorf, which was instantly chased 
away by a more intense pallor. “If that is the result, I will 
either go mad or die,” he murmured. 

“ And then will you see the devil face to face!” cried his 
brother, with a gay laugh. “ But perhaps you might find a 
Eurydice to unlock the under world for you. Well, we shall 
see. ‘Till then, farewell, brother, farewell.” Nodding mer- 
rily to Fredersdorf, Joseph hurried away. 

Fredersdorf watched his tall and graceful figure as it 
disappeared among the trees with a sad smile. 

“ He possesses something which is worth more than power 
or gold; he is young, healthy, full of hope and confidence. 
The world belongs to him, while I—” 

The sound of footsteps called his attention again to the 
allée, 


CHAPTER II. 


THE OLD COURTIER. 


THE figure of a man was seen approaching, but with steps 
“less light and active than young Joseph’s. As the stranger 
drew nearer, Fredersdorf’s features expressed great surprise. 
When at last he drew up at the window, the secretary burst 
into a hearty laugh. 

“Von Péllnitz! really and truly I do not deceive myself,” 


& 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 15 


cried Fredersdorf, clapping his hands together, and again 
and again uttering peals of laughter, in which Péllnitz heart- 
ily joined. 

Then suddenly assuming a grave and dignified manner, 
Fredersdorf bowed lowly and reverentially. “ Pardon, Baron 
Péllnitz, pardon,” said he in a tone of mock humility, “ that 
I have dared to welcome you in such an unseemly manner. 
I was indeed amazed to see you again; you had taken an 
eternal leave of the court, we had shed rivers of tears over 
your irreparable loss, and your unexpected presence com- 
pletely overpowered me.” 

“ Mock and jeer at me to your heart’s content, dear 
Fredersdorf; I will joyfully and lustily unite in your laugh- 
ter and your sport, as soon as I have recovered from the 
fearful jolting of the carriage which brought me here. Be 
pleased to open the window a little more, and place a chair 
on the outside, that I may climb in, like an ardent, ea- 
ger lover. I have not patience to go round to the castle 
door.” 

Fredersdorf silently obeyed orders, and in a few mo- 
ments Von Péllnitz was lying comfortably stretched out on 
a silk divan, in the secretary’s room. 

“ Ask me no questions, Fredersdorf,” said he, breathing 
loudly; “leave me awhile to enjoy undisturbed the comfort 
of your sofa, and do me the favor first to answer me a few 
questions, before I reply to yours.” 

“Demand, baron, and I will answer,” said Fredersdorf, 
seating himself on a chair near the sofa. 

“First of all, who is King of Prussia? You, or Jordan,— 
or General Kothenberg,—or Chazot,—or—speak, man, who is 
King of Prussia?” 

“ Frederick the Second, and he alone; and he so entirely, 
that even his ministers are nothing more than his secretaries, 
to write at his dictation; and his generals are only subor- 
dinate engineers to draw the plans of battle which he has 
already fully determined upon; his composers are only the 
copyists of his melodies and his musical conceptions; the 
architects are carpenters to build according to the plan 
which he has either drawn or chosen from amongst old 
Grecian models: in short, all who serve him are literally 


16 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


servants in this great state machine; they understand his 
will and obey it, nothing more.” 

“Hum! that is bad, very bad,” said Péllnitz. “I have 
found, however, that there are two sorts of men, and you 
have mentioned in your catalogue but one species, who have 
fallen so completely under the hand of Frederick. You have 
said nothing of his cook, of his valet-de-chambre, and yet 
these are most important persons. You must know that 
in the presence of these powers, a king ceases to be a king, 
and indeed becomes an entirely commonplace mortal, who 
eats and drinks and clothes himself, and who must <ither 
conceal or adorn his bodily necessities and weaknesses like 
any other man.” 

Fredersdorf shook his head sadly. “It seems to me that 
Frederick the Second is beyond the pale of temptation; for 
even with his cook and his valet he is still a king; his cook 
may prepare him the most costly and luxurious viands, but 
unhappily they do not lead him into temptation; a bad dish 
makes him angry, but the richest and choicest food has no 
effect upon his humor; he is exactly the same before dinner 
as after, fasting or feasting, and the favor he refuses before 
the champagne, he never grants afterward.” 

“The devil! that is worse still,’ murmured Péllnitz. 
* And the valet—with him also does the king remain king?” 

“Yes, so entirely, that he scarcely allows his valet to 
touch him. He shaves, coifs, and dresses himself.” 

“My God! who, then, has any influence over him? To 
whom can I turn to obtain a favor for me?” 

“To his dogs, dear baron; they are now the only ‘aflu- 
ential dependants! ” 

“Do you meon truly the four-footed dogs ?—or—” 

“The four-footed, dearest baron! Frederick has 1.ore 
confidence in them than in any two-legged animul. You 
know the king always trusted much to the instine+s of his 
dogs; he bas now gone so far in this confidence, as to be- 
lieve that the hounds have an instinctive aversion to all 
false, wicked, and evil-minded men. It is thereivo.e very 
important to every new-comer to be well received by the 
hounds, as the king’s reception is ssmewhat dependent upon 
theirs.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 19 


“Ts Biche yet with the king?” 

“Yes, still his greatest favorite.” 

“T am rejoiced to hear that! I was always in favor with 
the Signora Biche; it was her custom to smell my pocket, 
hoping to find chocolate. I beseech you, therefore, dearest 
friend, to give me some chocolate, with which I may touch 
and soften the heart of the noble signora, and thus induce 
the hing to look upon me favorably. 

“T will stick a half pound in each of your pockets, and if 
Biche still growls at you, it will be a proof that she is far 
more noble than men; in short, that she cannot be bribed. 
Have you finished with your questions? I think it is now 
my time to begin.” 

“ Not so, my friend. My head is still entirely filled with 
questions, and they are twining and twisting about like 
the fishing-worms in a bag, by the help of which men hope 
to secure fish. Be pitiful and allow me to fasten a few more 
of these questions to my fishing-rod, and thus try to secure 
my future.” 

“ Well, then, go on—ask further! ” 

“Does Frederick show no special interest in any prima 
donna of the opera, the ballet, or the theatre?” 

“No, he cares for none of these things.” 

“Ts his heart, then, cntirely turned to stone?” 

“Wholly and entirely.” 

“ And the queen-mother, has she no influence?” 

“My God! Baron Pdllnitz, how long have you been 
away? You ask me as many questions as if you had fallen 
directly from the moon, and knew not even the outward ap- 
pearance of the court.” 

“Dear friend, I have been a whole year away, that is to 
say, an eternity. The court is a very slippery place; and if 
a man does not accustom himself hourly to walk over this 
glassy parquet, he will surely fall. _ 

“ Also there is nothing so uncertain as a court life; that 
which is true to-day, is to-morrow considered incredible; 
that which was beautiful yesterday is thrust aside to-day, 
as hateful to look upon; that which we despise to-day is to- 
morrow sought after as a rare and precious gem. 

“Oh, I have had my experiences. I remember, that 


18 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


while I was residing at the court of Saxony, I composed a 
poem in honor of the Countess Aurora of Kénigsmark. This 
was by special command of the king; the poem was to be 
set to music by Hasse, and sung by the Italian singers on the 
birthday of Aurora. Well, the Countess Aurora was cast 
aside before my poem was finished, and the Countess Kozel 
had taken her place. I finished my poem, but Amelia, and. 
not Aurora, was my heroine. Hasse composed the music, 
and no one who attended the concert, given in honor of the 
birthday of the Countess Kozel, had an idea that this festal 
cantata had been originally ordered for Aurora of Kénigs-. 
mark! 

“Once, while I was in Russia, I had an audience from. 
the Empress Elizabeth. As I approached the castle, leaning 
on the arm of the Captain Ischerbatow, I observed the. 
guard, who stood before the door, and presented arms. Well, 
eight weeks later, this common guard was a general and a 
prince, and Ischerbatow was compelled to bow before him! 

“T saw in Venice a picture of the day of judgment by: 
Tintoretto. In this picture both Paradise and Hell were. 
portrayed. I saw in Paradise a lovely woman glowing with. 
youth, beauty, and grace. She was reclining in a most: 
enchanting attitude, upon a bed of roses, and surrounded by 
angels. Below, on the other half of the picture—that is to. 
say, in Hell—I saw the same woman; she had no couch of 
roses, but was’ stretched upon a glowing gridiron; no smil-. 
ing angels surrounded her, but a hideous, grinning devil tore- 
her flesh with red-hot pincers. 

“Pope Adrian had commanded Tintoretto to paint this. 
picture, to make it a munument in honor of the lovely Cin- 
nia, and to glorify her by all the power of art. Cinnia was. 
a very dear friend of Adrian. He was not only a pope, but: 
a man, and a man who took pleasure in all beautiful things. 
Cinnia was enchanting, and it was Tintoretto’s first duty to. 
paint her picture, and make her the principal object in Para- 
dise. But look you! the Last Judgment by Tintoretto was: 
a large painting, so large that to count even the heads upon: 
it is laborious. The heads in each corner are counted sepa-- 
rately, and then added together. It required some years,. 
of course, to paint such a picture; and by the time Tinto-- 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 19 


retto had completed Paradise and commenced the lower 
regions, many sad changes had occurred. The fond heart 
of the seducing Cinnia had withdrawn itself from the pope 
and clung tenaciously to Prince Colonna. The Holy Father, 
as we have said before, notwithstanding he was pope, had 
some human weaknesses; he naturally hated the fair in- 
constant, and sought revenge. He recommended Tintoretto 
to bring the erring one once more before the public—this 
time, however, as a guilty and condemned sinner in hell. 

“ Dear Fredersdorf, I think always of this picture when I 
look at the favorites of princes and kings, and I amuse my- 
self with their pride and arrogance. When I see them in 
their sunny paradise of power and influence, I say to myself, 
‘ All’s well for the fleeting present, ’ll wait patiently; soon 
I shall see you roasting on the glowing gridiron of royal 
displeasure, and the envious devils of this world filled with 
rapture at your downfall, will tear your flesh to pieces.’ 
Friend Fredersdorf, that is my answer to your question as 


to whether I have in one short year forgotten the quality 


of court life.” 

“ And by Heaven, that is a profound answer, which shows 
at least that Baron Péllnitz has undergone no change during 
the last year, but is still the experienced man of the world 
and the wise cavalier! ” 

“But why do you not give me my title, Fredersdorf? 
Why do you not call me grand chamberlain? ”- 

“ Because you are no longer in the service of the king, 
but have received your dismissal.” 

“ Alas! God grant that the Signora Biche is favorable to 
me; then will the king, as I hope, forget this dismissal. 
One question more. You say that the queen-mother has no 
influence; how is it with the wife of the king, Elizabeth 
Christine? Is she indeed the reigning sovereign?” 

“When did you return to Berlin?” 

“ Now, to-night; and when I left the carriage, I hastened 
here.” 

“Well, that is some excuse for your question. If you 
have only just arrived, you could not possibly know of the 
important event which will take place at the court to-night. 
This wiley ag the king will present his brother, Augustus 


20 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


William, to the court as Prince of Prussia, and his successor, 
I think that is a sufficient answer to your question. As to 
Queen Elizabeth Christine, she lives at Schénhausen, and 
might be called the widow of her husband. The king never — 
addresses one word to her, not even on grand festal days, 
when etiquette compels him to take a seat by her at table.” 

“ Now, one last question, dear friend. How is it with 
yourself? Are you influential? Does Frederick love you 
as warmly as he did a year ago? Do you hope to reach the 
goal of your ambition and become all-powerful?” 

“T have ceased to be ambitious,” sighed Fredersdorf. 
“T no longer thirst to be the king of a king. My only de- 
sire is to be independent of courts and kings—in short, to be 
my own master. Perhaps I may succeed in this; if not, be 
ruined, as many others have been. If I cannot tear my 
chains apart, I will perish under them! As for my influ- 
ence over the king, it is sufficient to say, that for six months 
I have loved a woman to distraction, who returns my pas- 
sion with ardor, and I cannot marry her because the king, 
notwithstanding my prayers and agony, will not consent.” 

“He is right,” said Péllnitz, earnestly, as he stretched 
himself out comfortably on the sofa; “he is a fool who 
thinks of yielding up his manly freedom to any woman.” 

“You say that, baron? you, who gave up king and court, 
and went to Nurnberg, in order that you might marry!” 

“ Aha! how adroitly you have played the knife out of 
my hands, and have yourself become the questioner! Well, 
it is but just that you also should have your curiosity satis- 
fied. Demand of me now and I will answer frankly.” 

“You are not married, baron?” 

“ Not in the least; and I have sworn that the goddess 
Fortuna alone shall be my beloved. I will have no mortal 
wife.” 

“ The report, then, is untrue that you have again changed 
your religion, and become Protestant?” 

“No, this time rumor has spoken the truth. The Nurn- 
berger patrician would accept no hand offered by a Catholic; 
so I took off the glove of my Catholicism and drew on my 
Protestant one. My God! to a man of the world, his outside 
faith is nothing more than an article of the toilet. Do you 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 21 


not know that it is bon ton for princes when they visit 
strange courts to wear the orders and uniforms of their 
entertainers? So it is my rule of etiquette to adopt the 
religion which the circumstances in which I find myself 
seem to make suitable and profitable. My situation in 
Nurnberg demanded that I should become a Protestant, and 
I became one.” 

“ And for all that the marriage did not take place?” 

“ No, it was broken off through the obstinacy of my bride, 
who refused to live in good fellowship and equality with me, 
and gave me only the use of her income, and no right in her 
property. Can you conceive of such folly? She imagined 
I would give myself in marriage, and make a baroness of 
an indifferently pretty burgher maiden; yes, a baroness of 
the realm, and expect no other compensation for it than a 
wife to bore me! She wished to wed my rank, and found 
it offensive that I should marry, not only her fair self, but 
her millions! The contest over this point broke off the 
contract, and I am glad of it. From my whole soul I regret 
and am ashamed of having ever thought of marriage. The 
king, therefore, has reason to be pleased with me.” 

“You are thinking, then, seriously of remaining at 
court?” 

“Do you not’ find that natural, Fredersdorf? I have 
lived fifty years at this court, and accustomed myself to its 
stupidity, its nothingness, and its ceremony, as a man may 
accustom himself to a hard tent-bed, and find it at last more 
luxurious than a couch of eider-down. Besides, I have just 
lost a million in Nurnberg, and I must find a compensation; 
the means at least to close my life worthily as a cavalier. 
I must, therefore, again bow my free neck, and enter service. 
You must aid me, and this day obtain for me an audience 
of the king. I hope your influence will reach that far. The 
rest must be my own affair.” 

“We will see what can be done. I have joyful news for 
the king to-day. Perhaps it will make him gay and com- 
plaisant, and he will grant you an audience.” 

“ And this news which you have for him?” 

“The Barbarina has arrived!” 

“What! the celebrated dancer?” 


_ 


92 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“The same. We have seized and forcibly carried her 
off from the republic of Venice and from Lord McKenzie; 
and Baron Swartz has brought her as prisoner to Berlin! ” 

Péllnitz half raised himself from the sofa, and, seizing 
the arm of the private secretary, he looked him joyfully in 
the face. “I have conceived a plan,” said he, “a heavenly 
plan! My friend, the sun of power and splendor is rising 
for us, and your ambition, which has been weary and ready 
to die, will now revive, and raise its head proudly on high! 
That which I have long sought for is at last found. The 
king is too young, too ardent, too much the genius and poet, 
to be completely unimpassioned. Even Achilles was not 
impenetrable in the heel, and Frederick has also his mortal 
part. Do you know, Fredersdorf, who will discover the weak 
point, and send an arrow there?” 

“ No.” 

“Well, I will tell you: the Signora Barbarina. Ah, you . 
smile! you shake your unbelieving head. You are no good 
psychologist. Do you not know that we desire most earnestly 
that which seems difficult, if not impossible to attain, and 
prize most highly that which we have won with danger and 
difficulty? Judge, also, how precious a treasure the Bar- 
barina must be to Frederick. For her sake he has for 
months carried on a diplomatic contest with Venice, and at 
last he has literally torn her away from my Lord Stuart 
McKenzie.” 

“ That is true,” said Fredersdorf, thoughtfully; “for ten 
days the king has waited with a rare impatience for the 
arrival of this beautiful dancer, and he commanded that, 
as soon as she reached Berlin, it should be announced to 
him.” 

“T tell you the king will adore the Signora Barbarina,” 
said Péllnitz, as he once more stretched himself upon the 
sofa pillows. “TI shall visit her to-day, and make the neces- 
sary arrangements. Now I am content. I see land, a small 
island of glorious promise, which will receive me, the poor 
shipwrecked mariner, and give me shelter and protection. 
I will make myself the indispensable counsellor of Bar- 
barina; I will teach her how she can melt the stony heart of 
Frederick, and make him her willing slave.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 93 


“Dreams, dreams!” said Fredersdorf, shrugging his 
shoulders. 

“ Dreams which I will make realities as soon as you ob- 
tain me an audience with the king.” 

“Well, we will see what can be done, and whether— 
but listen, the king is awake, and has opened his window. 
He is playing upon the flute, which is his morning custom. 
His morning music is always the barometer of his mood, and 
I can generally judge what kind of royal weather we will 
have, whether bright or stormy. Come with me to the win- 
dow and listen awhile.” 

“ Agreed,” said Péllnitz, and he sprang with youthful 
elasticity from the divan and joined Fredersdorf at the 
window. They listened almost breathlessly to the sweet 
tones which seemed to whisper to them from the upper win- 
dows; then mingling and melting with the perfume of the 
orange-blossoms and the glorious and life-giving morning 
air, they forced their sweet and subtle essence into the room 
with the cunning and hardened old courtiers. 

Fredersdorf and Pdéllnitz listened as a sly bat listens to 
the merry whistling of an innocent bird, and watches the 
propitious moment to spring upon her prey. It was an ada- 
gio which the king played upon his ilute, and he was indeed 


‘ a master in the art. Slightly trembling, as if in eternal 


melancholy, sobbing and pleading, soon bursting out in rap- 
turous and joyful strains of harmony, again sighing and weep- 
ing, these melting tones fell like costly pearls upon the sum- 
mer air. The birds in the odorous bushes, the wind which 
rustled in the trees, the light waves of the river, which with 
soft murmurs prattled upon the shore, all Nature seemed for 
the moment to hold her breath and listen to this enchanting 
melody. Even Fredersdorf felt the power and influence of 
this music as he had done in earlier days. The old love for 
his king filled his heart, and his eyes were misty with tears. 

As the music ceased, Fredersdorf exclaimed involunta- 
rily: “ He is, after all, the noblest and greatest of men. It is 
useless to be angry with him. I am forced against my will 
to worship him.” 

“Now,” said Péllnitz, whose face had not for one moment 
lost its expression of cold attention and sly cunning, “ how 


24 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


says the barometer? May we promise ourselves a clear and 
sunny day?” 

“Yes, Frederick is in one of his soft and yielding moods. 
It is probable he has been some hours awake and has written 
to some of his friends—perhaps to Voltaire, or Algarotti; 
this makes him always bright and clear.” 

“You think I shall obtain my audience?” 

“T think you will.” 

“Then, dear friend, I have only to say that I hope you 
will give me the chocolate for that noble and soul-searching 
hound, the Signora Biche.” 


CHAPTER III. 


THE MORNING HOURS OF A KING. 


KinG FREDERICK had finished the adagio, and stood lean- 
ing against the window gazing into the garden; his eyes, 
usually so fierce and commanding, were softened by melan- 
choly, and a sad smile played upon his lips. The touching 
air which he had played found its echo within, and held 
his soul a prisoner to troubled thoughts. Suddenly he 
seemed to rouse himself by a great effort to the realities 
of life, and, hastily ringing the bell, he commanded Jordan, 
the director of the poor and the almshouse, to be summoned 
to him. 

A few moments later, Jordan, who had been for some 
days a guest at the castle of Charlottenburg, entered the 
king’s room. Frederick advanced to meet him, and ex- 
tended both hands affectionately. “ Good-morning, Jordan,” 
said he, gazing into the wan, thin face of his friend, with the 
most earnest sympathy. “I hope you had a refreshing 
night.” 

“T have had a charming night, for I was dreaming of 
your majesty,” he replied, with a soft smile. 

Frederick sighed, released his hands, and stepped back 
afew paces. “ Your majesty?” repeated he. “ Why do you 


— Oe eee 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 95 


lay so cold a hand upon that heart which beats so warmly for 
you! To what purpose is this etiquette? Are we not alone? 
and can we not accord to our souls a sweet interchange of 
thought and feeling without ceremony? Do we not under- 
stand and love each other? Forget, then, for awhile, dear 
Jordan, all these worldly distinctions. You see I am still 
in my morning-dress. I do not, like the poor kings upon 
the stage, wear my crown and sceptre in bed, or with my 
night-dress.” 

Jordan gazed lovingly and admiringly upon his great 
friend. “ You need no crown upon your brow to show to 
the world that you are a king by the grace of God. The 
majesty of greatness is written upon your face, my king.” 

“That,” said Frederick with light irony, “is because we 
princes and kings are acknowledged to be the exact image 
of the Creator, the everlasting Father, As for you, and all 
the rest of the race, you dare not presume to compare your- 
selves with us. Probably you are made in the image of 
the second and third persons of the Trinity, while we carry 
upon our withered and wearisome faces the quintessence of 
the Godhead.” 

“ Alas! alas, sire, if our pious priest heard you, what 
a stumbling-block would he consider you! ” 

The king smiled. “Do you know, Jordan,” said he 
gravely, “I believe God raised me up for this special mission, 
to be a rock of offence to these proud and worldly priests, 
and to trample under foot their fooleries and their arro- 
gance? I look upon that as the most important part of my 
mission upon earth, and I am convinced that I am appointed 
to humble this proud church, the vain and arrogant work of 
hypocritical priests, and to establish in its place the pure 
worship of God.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Jordan, shrugging his shoulders; “ if 
the mass of men had the clear intellect of a Frederick! if 
their eyes were like those of my royal eagle, to whom it is 
given to gaze steadfastly at the sun without being dazzled. 
Alas! sire, the most of our race resemble you so little! They 
are all like the solémn night-owls, who draw a double curtain 
over their eyes, lest the light should blind them. The church 
serves as this double eyelid for the night-owls among men, 


96 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


or, rather, the churches, for the cunning and covetousness 
of those priests has not been satisfied with one church, but 
has established many.” 

“Yes,” said the king angrily; “they have sown dragons’ 
teeth, from which bloodthirsty warriors have sprung, who 
wander up and down, and in mad ambition tear all mankind, 
and themselves included, to pieces. Listen, Jordan, we have 
fallen upon a subject which, as you know, has interested 
and occupied me much of late, and it is precisely upon these 
points that I have sought your counsel to-day. Be seated, 
then, and hear what I have to say to you. You know that 
the pietists and priests charge me with being a heretic, be- 
cause I do not think as they think, and believe as they be- 
lieve. Which of them, think you, Jordan, has the true 
faith? What is truth, and what is wisdom? Each sect be- 
lieves itself—and itself alone—the possessor of both. That 
is reason enough, it appears to me, for doubting them all.”: 

“In the same land?” ANS 

“Yes, in various places in the same city, we are taught 
entirely different and opposing doctrines in the name of 
religion. On one hand, we are threatened with everlasting | 
fire in the company of the devil and his angels, if we believe 
that the Almighty is bodily present in the elements offered at 
the sacrament of the Lord’s supper. On the other hand, 
we are taught, with equal assurance, that the same terrible 
punishment will be awarded us unless we believe that God is 
literally, and not symbolically, present. in the bread and 
wine. The simple statement of the doctrines of the different 
churches in the world would fill an endless number of folios. 
Each religion condemns all others, as leading to perdition; 
they cannot therefore all be true, for truth does not contra- 
dict itself. If any one of these were the true faith, would 
not God have made it clear, and without question, to our 
eyes? God, who is truth, cannot be dark or doubtful! If 
these differences in religion related only to outward forms . 
and ceremonies, we would let them pass as agreeable and 
innocent changes, even as we adopt contentedly the changes 
in style and fashion of our clothing. The doctrines of faith, 
as taught in England, cannot be made to harmonize with 
those fulminated at Rome. He to whom it would be given 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 97 


to reconcile all opposing doctrines, and to unite all hearts 
in one pure and simple faith would indeed give peace to the 
world, and be a Messiah and a Saviour.” 

“Yes, he would accomplish what God himself, as it ap- 
pears, has not thought proper to do; his first great act must 
be to institute and carry out a terrible massacre, in which 
every priest of every existing religion must be pursued to 
the death.” 

“ And that is precisely my mission,” said the king. “I 
will institute a massacre, not bodily and bloodily, but soul- 
piercing and purifying. I say to you, Jordan, God dwells 
not in the churches of these imperious priests, who choose to 
call themselves the servants of God. God was with Moses 
on Mount Sinai, and with Zoroaster in the wilderness; he 
was by Dante’s side as he wrote his ‘ Divina Commedia,’ 
and he piloted the ships of Columbus as he went out bravely 
to seek a new world! God is everywhere, and that man- 
kind should reverence and believe in and worship him, is 
proved by their bearing his image and their high calling.” 

Jordan seized the hand of the king and pressed it en- 
thusiastically to his lips. “ And the world says that you do 
not believe in God,” he exclaimed; “ they class you with the 
unbelievers, and dare to preach against you, and slander you 
from the pulpit.” . 

“Yes, as I do not adopt their dogmas, I am, to them, a 
heretic,” said the king laughing; “and when they preach 
against me, it proves that they fear me, and look upon me 
as a powerful enemy. The enemy of the priests I will be as 
long as I live, that is to say, of those arrogant and imperious 
men who are wise in their own eyes, and despise all who do 
not agree with them! I will destroy the foundations of all 
these different churches, with their different dogmas. I 
will utterly extinguish them by a universal church, in which 
every man shall worship God after his own fashion. The 
worship of God should be the only object of every church! 
All these different doctrines, which they cast in each other’s 
teeth, and for love of which they close their doors against 
each other, shall be given up. I will open all their churches, 
and the fresh, pure air of God shall purify the musty build- 
ings. I will build a temple, a great illimitable temple, a 


298 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


second Pantheon, a church which shall unite all churches 
within itself, in which it shall be granted to every man to 
have his own altar, and adopt his own religious exercises. 
All desire to worship God; every man shall do so according 
to his conscience! Look you, Jordan, how pathetically they 
discourse of brotherly love, and they tear each other to 
pieces! Let me only build my Pantheon, and then will all 
men, in truth, become brothers. The Jew and the so-called 
heathen, the Mohammedan and the Persian, the Calvinist 
and the Catholic, the Lutheran and the Reformer—they will . 
all gather into my Pantheon, to worship God; all their forms 
and dogmas will simultaneously fall to the ground. They 
will believe simply in one God, and the churches of all these 
different sects will soon stand empty and in ruins.” * 

While the king spoke, his countenance was illumined; a 
noble enthusiasm fired his large clear eyes, and his cheeks 
glowed as if from the awakening breath of some new internal 
light. 

Jordan’s glance expressed unspeakable love, but at the 
same time he looked so sad, so pained, that Frederick felt 
chilled and restrained. 

“ How, Jordan! you are not of my opinion?” said he, 
with surprise. “ Our souls, which have been always hereto- 
fore in union, are now apart. You do not approve of my 
Pantheon ?” 

“Tt is too exalted, sire, to be realized. Mankiznd require 
a form of religion, in order not to lose all personal control.” 

“No, you mistake. They require only God, only love 
for this exalted and lofty Being, whom we call God. The 
only proof by which we can know that we can sincerely love 
God, lies in a steadfast and strong purpose to obey Him. 
According to this, we need no other religion than our rea- 
son, the good gift of God. So soon as we know that He has 
spoken, we should be silent and submissive. Our inward 
worship of God should consist in this, that we acknowledge 
Him and confess our sins; our outward worship in the per- 
formance of all our duties, according to our reason, the ex- 
alted nature of God, and our entire dependence upon Him.” 


* Thiébault, in his “ Souvenirs de Vingt Ans,” tells of Frederick’s plan 
for a Pantheon. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 99 


“Tt is to be regretted, sire, that this world is not suffi- 
ciently enlightened to comprehend you. I am afraid that 
your majesty will bring about exactly the opposite of that 
which you design. All these religious sects which, as you 
say, are so entirely antagonistic, would by this forced union 
feel themselves humiliated and trampled upon; their hatred 
toward each other would be daily augmented; their antipa- 
thies would find new food; and their religious zeal, which is 
always exclusive, would burn with fiercer fury. Not only 
the priests, but kings and princes, would look upon the car- 
rying out of your plan with horror. And shall not this 
daring step bring terror into the cabinets of kings? A mon- 
arch, who has just drawn the eyes of all politicians upon him- 
self, now proposes to take charge of the consciences of his 
subjects, and bow them to his will! Alas, how would envy, 
with all her poisonous serpents, fasten upon the triumphal 
ear of a king who, by the great things he has already 
achieved, had given assurance of yet greater results, and now 
stoops to tyrannize over and oppress the weak and good, 
and east them among the ruins of their temples of worship 
to weep and lament in despair! No, my king, this idea of a 
Pantheon, a universal house of worship, can never be real- 
ized. It was a great and sublime thought, but not a wise 
one; too great, too enlarged and liberal to be appreciated by 
this pitiable world. Your majesty will forgive me for hav- 
ing spoken the honest truth. I was forced to speak. Like 
my king, I love the one only and true God, and God is 
truth.” 

“You have done well, Jordan,” said the king, after a 
long pause, during which he raised his eyes thoughtfully 
toward heaven. “ Yes, you have done well, and I believe 
you are right in your objections to my Pantheon. I offer up 
to you, therefore, my favorite idea. For your dear sake, 
my Pantheon shall become a ruin. Let this be a proof of the 
strong love I bear you, Jordan. I will not contend with the 
priests in my church, but I will pursue them without falter- 
ing into their own; and I say to you, this will be a long and 
stiff-necked war, which will last while my life endures. I 
will not have my people blinded and stupefied by priests. 
I will suffer no other king in Prussia. I alone will be king. 


80 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


These proud priests may decide, in silence and humility, to 
teach their churches and intercede for them; but let them 
once attempt to play the réle of small popes, and to exalt 
themselves as the only possessors of the key to heaven, then 
they shall find in me an adversary who will prove to them 
that the key is false with which they shut up the Holiest of 
Holies, and is but used by them as a means to rob the people 
of their worldly goods. Light and truth shall be the device 
of my whole land. This will I seek after, and by this will I 
govern Prussia. I will have no blinded subjects, no super- 
stitious, conscience-stricken, trembling, priest-ridden slaves. 
My people shall learn to think; thought shall be free as the 
wanton air in Prussia; no censor or police shall limit her 
boundary. The thoughts of men should be like the life- 
giving and beautifying sun, all-nourishing and all-enlighten- 
ing; calling into existence and fructifying, not only the rich, 
and rare, and lovely, but also the noxious and poisonous 
plant and the creeping worm. These have also the right 
of life: if left to themselves, they soon die of their own 
insignificance or nothingness—die under the contempt of all 
the good and great.” 

“T fear,” said Jordan, “that Frederick the Great is the 
only man whose mind is so liberal and so unprejudiced. Be- 
lieve me, my king, there is no living sovereign in Europe 
who dares guarantee to his subjects free thought and free 
speech.” 

“T will try so to act as to leave nothing to fear from 
the largest liberty of thought or speech,” said the king, 
quietly. ‘“ Men may think and say of me what they will— 
that troubles me not; I will amuse myself with their slan- 
ders and accusations oe heresy; as for their applause—well, 
that is a cheap merchandise, which I must share with every 
expert magician and every popular comedian. The applause 
of my own conscience, and of my friends—thy applause, my 
Jordan—is alone of value for me. Then,” said he, earnestly, 
almost solemnly, “ above all things, I covet fame. My name 
shall not pass away like a soft tone or a sweet melody. I 
will write it in golden letters on the tablet of history; it 
shall glitter like a star in the firmament; when centuries 
have passed away, my people shall remember me, and shall 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 31 


say, ‘Frederick the Second made Prussia great, and en- 
larged her borders; he was a father who loved his people 
more than he did himself, and cheerfully sacrificed his own 
rest and comfort in their service, he was a teacher who spoke 
to them by word of mouth, and gave liberty to their souls.’ 
Oh, Jordan, you must stand by me and help me to reach this 
great goal for which I thirst. Remain with me, dear friend, 
remain ever by my side, and with thy love, thy constancy, 
thy truth, and thy sincerity, help me to establish what is 
good, and to punish the evil; to acknowledge and promote 
what is noble and expose the unworthy to shame and con- 
fusion. Oh, Jordan! God has perhaps called me to be a 
great king; remain by me, and help me to be a good and 
simple-minded man.” | 

He threw himself with impetuosity on Jordan’s breast, 
and clasped him passionately in his arms. Jordan returned 
the king’s embrace, and silently raised his moist eyes to 
heaven. A prayer to “Our Father” spoke in that eloquent 
eye, a heart-felt, glowing prayer for this man now resting 
upon his bosom, and who for him was not the all-powerful 
and commanding sovereign, but the noble, loving, and be- 
loved friend, this poet and philosopher, before whose mighty 
genius his whole soul bowed in wonder and admiration; but 
suddenly, in this moment of deep and pious emotion, a cold, 
an icy chill, seemed to shiver and play like the breath of 
death over his features, and the hot blood, like liquid metal, 
rushed madly through his veins; he gave a light, short 
cough; with a quick, abrupt movement, he released himself 
from the arms of.the king. Withdrawing a few steps, he 
turned away, and pressed his handkerchief to his lips. 

“Jordan, you suffer, you are sick,” said the king, anx- 
iously. 

Jordan turned again to him; his face was calm, and even 
gay; his eyes beamed with' that strange, mysterious, and 
touching fire of consumption which hides the shadow of 
death under the rosy lip and glowing cheek; and, less cruel 
than all other maladies, leaves to the soul its freshness, and 
to the heart its power to love and hope. 

“Not so, sire,” said Jordan, “I do not suffer. How can 
I be otherwise than well and happy in your presence?” Ag 


82 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


he said this he tried to thrust his handkerchief in his 
pocket. 

The king looked earnestly at this handkerchief. “ Jor-. 
dan, why did you press that handkerchief so hastily to your. 
lips?” 

“Jordan forced a smile. “Well,” said he, “I was 
obliged, as your majesty no doubt saw, to cough, and 1 wished 
to make this disagreeable music as soft as possible.” 

“That was not the reason,” said Frederick; and, step- 
ping hastily forward, he seized the handkerchief. ‘“ Blood! 
it is drenched in blood,” said he, in a tone so full of anguish, 
that it was evident he recognized and feared this fatal signal. 

“Well, yes, it is blood; your majesty sees I am blood- 
thirsty! Unhappily, I do not shed the blood of your ene~ 
mies, but my own, which I would gladly give, drop by drop, 
if I could thereby save my king one hour’s suffering or care.” 

“ And yet you, Jordan, are now the cause of my bitterest 
grief. You are ill, and you conceal it from me. You suffer, 
and force yourself to seem gay, and hide your danger from 
me, in place of turning to my physicians and demanding 
their counsel and aid.” 

“Frederick the Wise once said to me, ‘ Physicians are 
but quacks and charlatans, and a man gives himself up to a 
tedious suicide who swallows their prescriptions.’ ” 

“No, it was not ‘ Frederick the Wise,’ but ‘ Frederick the 
Fool,’ who uttered that folly. When the sun is shining, 
Frederick has no fear of ghosts; but at the turn of midnight, 
he will breathe a silent ‘Father in heaven,’ to be protected 
from them. We have no use for confidence in physicians 
when we are healthy; when we are ill we need them, and 
then we begin to hold them in consideration. You are ill, 
your breast suffers. I entreat you, Jordan, to call upon my 
physician, and to follow his advice promptly and systematic- 
ally. I demand this as a proof of your friendship.” 

“T will obey your majesty, immediately,” said Jordan, 
who now found himself completely overcome by the weak- 
ness which follows loss of blood; trembling, and almost 
sinking, he leaned upon the table. Frederick perceived this, 
and rolling forward his own arm-chair, with loving and ten- 
der care, he placed Jordan within it. He called his servant, 


——————— —————— —— lee eee — 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 33 


and ordered him to roll the chair to Jordan’s room, and go 
instantly for the physician Ellertt. 

“Tt will be all in vain, and I shall lose him,” murmured 
the king. “ Yes, I will lose him, as I have lost Suhm, and as 
I shall soon lose my Ceesarius, the good Kaiserling. Alas! 
why did God give me so warm a heart for friendship, and 
then deprive me of my friends?” 

Folding his arms, he stepped to the window and gazed 
thoughtfully and sadly into the garden below, but he saw not 
its bloom and beauty; his eyes were turned inward, and he 
saw only the grave of his friend. Suddenly rousing and 
conquering himself, he shook off the weary spirit of melan- 
choly, and sought comfort in his flute, the faithful com- 
panion of all his sufferings and struggles. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE PARDONED COURTIER. 


FREDERICK commenced again to play, but this time itwas 
not an adagio, but a joyous and triumphant allegro, with 
which he sought to dispel the melancholy and quench the 
tears flowing in his troubled heart. He walked backward 
and forward in his room, and from time to time stood be- 
fore the sofa upon which his graceful greyhound, Biche, 
was quietly resting. Every minute the king passed her sofa, 
Biche raised her beautiful head and greeted her royal friend 
with an intelligent and friendly glance and a gentle wagging 
of her tail, and this salutation was returned each time by 
Frederick before he passed on. Finally, and still playing 
the flute, the king pressed his foot upon a silver button in 


the floor of his room, and rang a bell which hung in Freders- 


dorf’s room, immediately under his own. 

A few minutes later the secretary entered, but stood 
quietly at the door till the king had finished his allegro and 
laid aside his flute. 

“ Good-morning,” said the king, and he looked up at his 


84 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


favorite with so sharp and piercing a glance that Fredersdorf 
involuntarily trembled, and cast his eyes to the ground. 
“You must have been long wide awake, you answer the bell 
so quickly.” 

“Yes, your majesty, I have been long awake. I am 
happy, for I have good news to bring you.” 

“Well, what is it?” said the king smiling. “Has my 
god-mother, the Empress Maria Theresa, voluntarily sur- 
rendered to the Emperor Charles VII.? Have France and 
England become reconciled? or—and that seems to me the 
most probable—has my private secretary mastered the mys- 
tery of gold-making, after which he has so long striven, and 
for which he so willingly offers up the most costly and solemn 
sacrifices?” The king laid so peculiar an expression upon the 
word sacrifive that Fredersdorf wondered if he had not lis- 
tened to his conversation with Joseph, and learned the 
strange sacrifice which they now proposed to offer up to the 
devil’s shrine. 

“Well, tell your news quickly,” said the king. “You 
see that I am torturing myself with the most wild and in-. 
credible suppositions.” 

“ Sire, the Barbarina reached Berlin last night.” 

“Truly,” said the king, indifferently, “so we have at 
last ravished her from Venice, and Lord Stuart McKenzie.” 

“ Not exactly so, your highness. Lord Stuart McKenzie 
arrived in Berlin this morning.” 

Frederick frowned. “ This is also, as it appears, a case 
of true love, and may end in a silly marriage. I am not. 
pleased when men or women in my service entertain serious. 
thoughts of love or marriage; it occupies their thoughts and 
interferes with the performance of their duty.” 

“Your majesty judges severely,” murmured Fredersdorf,, 
who knew full well that this remark was intended for his 
special benefit. 

“Well, this is not only my opinion, but I act in conso- 
nance with it. I allow myself no relaxation. Have I 
ever had a love-affair? Perhaps, Fredersdorf, you believe 
my blood to be frozen like ice in my veins; that I have a 
heart of stone; in short, that I ceased to be a man when 
I became a king.” 








FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 35 


“Not so; but I believe your majesty is too great and too 
exalted to find any one worthy of your love.” 

“Folly, folly, sheer folly, Fredersdorf! When a man 
loves, he does not weigh himself in the scales and find out 
how many pounds of worth he has; he only loves, and for- 
gets all other earthly things. Now, for myself, I dare not 
forget that I am a king, and that my time and strength be- 
long to my people. My heart is too tender, and for this 
reason I fly from love. So should you also flee, you also 
dare not forget that your life is consecrated to your king. 
The Signora Barbarina shall not forget that she is in my 
service; dancing, and not loving, must now occupy her 
thoughts and actions. I will allow her flirtations and 
amours, but a true love I absolutely forbid. How can she 
go through with her ballets, her pirouettes, and entre- 
chats gayly and gracefully if a passionate love sits enthroned 
within her heart? I have promised the English ambassador, 
who is the cousin of this Lord Stuart McKenzie, that I will 
separate these lovers. At this moment the friendship of 
England is of much importance to me, and I shall certainly 
keep my promise. Write immediately to the director of 
police that I command him not only to banish Lord McKen- 
zie from Berlin, but to send him under guard to Hamburg, 
and there place him upon an English ship bound for Eng- 
land. In twelve hours he must leave Berlin.* Is that your 
only news, Fredersdorf?” 

“No, sire,” said he, stealing a glance toward the door, 
which at this moment was lightly opened. “I have another 
novelty to announce, but I do not know whether it will be 
acceptable to your majesty. Baron von Péllnitz—” 

“ Has sent us the announcement of his marriage?” 

“ No, sire, he is not married.” 

At this moment, the Signora Biche began to bay light 
notes of welcome, and raised herself up from her comfort- 


* This order was obeyed. Lord McKenzie, the tender lover of the 
beautiful Barbarina, who had followed her from Venice to Berlin, was, im- 
mediately on his arrival, banished from Prussia by the special command of 
the king, and taken to Hamburg; from thence he addressed some passionate 
letters to his beautiful beloved, which she, of course, never received, and 
which are preserved in the royal archives at Berlin. (See Schneider’s “ His- 
tory of Operas.”) 

8 


56 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCT; OR, 


able position on the sofa. The king did not remark her, 
however; he was wholly occupied with Fredersdorf. 

“ How! do you say he is not married?” 

“No, he has not married,” said a plaintive voice from 
behind the door, “and he prays your majesty, of your great 
grace, to allow him to dedicate his whole life to his royal 
master, forgetting all other men and women.” The king 
turned and saw his former master of ceremonies kneeling 
before the door, and his clasped hands stretched out im- 
ploringly before him. 

Frederick gave a hearty peal of laughter, while Biche, 
raising herself with a joyful bark, sprang toward the kneel- 
ing penitent, and capered playfully about him; she appear. ~ 
indeed to be licking the hand in which the sagacious baron 
held loosely a large piece of her favorite chocolate. At first, 
the king laughed heartily; then, as he remarked how ten- 
derly Biche licked the hand of the baron, he shook his head 
thoughtfully. “I have had a false confidence in the true 
instinct of my little Biche; she seems, indeed, to welcome 
Pollnitz joyfully; while a sharp bite in his calf is the only 
reception which his wicked and faithless heart deserves.” 

“ Happily, sire, my heart is not lodged in my calves,” 
said Péllnitz. “The wise Biche knows that the heart of 
Péllnitz is always in the same place, and that love to my 
king and master has alone brought me back to Berlin.” 

“Nonsense! A Pollnitz can feel no other love than that 
which he cherishes for his own worthy person, and the purses 
of all others. Let him explain now, quickly and without 
circumlocution, if he really wishes my pardon, why, after 
going to Nurnberg to marry a bag of gold, containing a few 
millions, he has now returned to Berlin.” 

“Sire, without circumlocution, the bag of gold would 
not open for me, and would not scatter its treasures accord- 
ing to my necessities and desires.” 

“Ah! I comprehend. The beautiful Nurnberger had 
heard of your rare talent for scattering gold, and thought it 
wiser to lose a baron of the realm than to lose her millions.” 

“Yes, that’s about it, sire.” 

“T begin to have a great respect for the wisdom of this 
woman,” said Frederick, laughing. “I think she has a more 


SS ee ee eee ee 


——— a 








FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 39 


reliable instinct than my poor Biche, who, I see, still licks 
your hands.” 

“ Oh, Biche knows me better than any man,” said Poll- 
nitz, tenderly patting the greyhound. “ Biche knows that 
my heart is filled with but one love—love to my king and 
master. She knows that I have returned to lay myself as 
she does, in all humility and self-abandonment, at the feet 
of my royal Frederick, to receive either kicks or favors, as 
he may see fit to bestow them; to be equally grateful for 
the bones hé may throw to me in his pity, as for the costly 
viands he may grant in the magnanimity of his great soul.” 

“You are an absolute and unqualified fool,” said the 
yong, laughing, “and if it was not against my conscience, 
and unworthy of human nature, to engage a man as a per- 
petual buffoon, I would promote you to the office of court 
fool. You might, at least, serve as an example to my cava- 
liers, by teaching them what they ought to avoid.” 

“T have merited this cruel contempt, this painful pun- 
ishment from my royal master,” said Péllnitz. “I submit 
silently. I will not, for a moment, seek to justify myself.” 

“You do well in that. You can make no defence. You 
left my service faithlessly and heartlessly, with the hope of 
marrying a fortune. The marriage failed, and you come 
back with falsehood in your heart and on your lips, chatter- 
ing about your love for my royal house. You are not 
ashamed to liken yourself to a hound, and to howl even as 
they do, in order that I may take you back into favor. Do 
not suppose, for one moment, that I am deceived by these 
professions—if you could have done better for yourself 
elsewhere, you would not have returned to Berlin; that not 
being the case, you creep back, and vow that love alone has 
constrained you. Look you, Péllnitz, I know you, I know 
you fully. You can never deceive me; and, most assuredly, 
I would not receive you again into my service, if I did not 
look upon you as an old inventory of my house, an inherit- 
ance from my grandfather Frederick. I receive you, there- 
fore, out of consideration for the dead kings in whose service 
you were, and who amused themselves with your follies; 
for their sakes I cannot allow you to hunger. Think not 
that I will prepare you a bed of down, and give you gold to 


38 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


waste in idleness. You must work for your living, even as 
we alldo. I grant you a pension, but you will perform your 
old duty, as grand master of ceremonies. You understand 
such nonsense better than I do. You were educated in a 
good school, and studied etiquette from the foundation stone, 
under Prussia’s first king; and that you may not say we have 
overlooked your great worth, I will lay yet another burden 
upon your shoulders, and make you ‘ master of the wardrobe.’ 
It shall not be said of us, that nonsense and folly are neg- 
lected at our court; even these shall have their tribute. 
You shall therefore be called ‘ Master of the Robes,’ but I 
counsel you, yes, I warn you, never to interfere with my 
coats and shirts. You shall have no opportunity to make 
a gold-embroidered monkey of me. Etiquette requires that 
I must have a master of the robes, but I warn you to interest 
yourself in all other things rather than in my toilet.” 

“ All that your majesty condescends to say, is written in 
letters of flame upon my heart.” 

“TI would rather suppose upon your knees; they must in- 
deed burn from this long penance. I have read you a lec- 
ture, & la facgon of a village schoolmaster. You can rise, the 
lecture is over.” 

Pollnitz rose from his knees, and, straightening himself, 
advanced before the king, and made one of those low, artistic 
bows, which he understood to perfection. “ When does your 
majesty wish that I should enter upon my duties?” 

“ 'To-day—at this moment. Count Tessin, a special am- 
bassador from Sweden, has just arrived. I wish to give him 
a courtly reception. You will make the necessary arrange- 
ments. Enter at once upon the discharge of your func- 
tions.” 

“T suppose, sire, that my salary also commences so soon 
as I begin the discharge of my duties?” 

“T said nothing about a salary. I promised you a pen- 
sion; and, not wishing to maintain you in absolute idleness, 
I lay upon you these absurd and trifling duties.” 

“Shall I not, then, receive two pensions, if I discharge 
the two functions?” said Péllnitz, in a low voice. 

“You are an out-and-out scoundrel,” said Frederick, 
“but I know all your tricks. I shall not follow my father’s 


gh 


a el eS ORE 


a 


SN ee 








FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 39 


example, who once asked you how much it required to main- 
tain worthily a cavalier of rank, and you assured him that a 
hundred thousand thalers was not sufficient. I grant you a 


.. pension of two thousand thalers, and T tell you it must suffice 


to support you creditably. Woe to you, when you com- 
mence again your former most contemptible and miserable 
life! woe to you, when you again forget to distinguish be- 
tween your own money and the money of others! I assure 
you that I will never again pay one of your debts. And 
in order that credulous men may not be so silly as to lend 
you money, I will make my wishes known by a printed 
order, and impose a tax of fifty thalers upon every man 
silly and bold enough to lend you money. Are you con- 
tent with this, and will you enter my service upon these 
terms?” 

“Yes, on any conditions which your majesty shall please 
to lay upon me. But when, in spite of this open declaration 
of your majesty, crazy people will still insist upon lending me 
money, you will admit, sire, in short, that it is not my debt, 
and I cannot be called upon for payment.” 

“T will take such precautions that no one will be foolish 
enough to lend you money. I will have it publicly an- 
nounced that he who lends you money shall have no claim 
upon you, so that to lend you gold is to give you gold, and 
truly in such a way as to spare you even the trouble of 
thanks. I will have this trumpted through every street. 
Are you still content?” 

“Oh, sire, you show me in this the greatest earthly kind- 
ness; you make me completely irresponsible. Woe to the 
fools and lunatics who are mad enough to lend me money! 
From this time onward, I shall never know a weary or list- 
less moment. I shall have always the cheering and inspiring 
occupation of winning the hearts of trusting and weak- 
minded dunces, and, by adroit sleight-of-hand, transferring 
the gold from their pockets to my own.” 

“You are incorrigible,” said the king. “I doubt if all 
mankind are made after the image of God. I think many 
of the race resemble the devil, and I look upon you, Péllnitz, 
as a tolerably successful portrait of his satanic majesty. I 
don’t suppose you will be much discomposed by this opinion, 


40 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


I imagine you look upon God and the devil in very much the 
same light.” 

“Oh, not so, your majesty; I am far too religious to 
fall into such errors.” 

“Yes, you are too religious; or, rather you have too 
many religions. To which, for example, do you now profess 
to belong?” 

“Sire, I have become a Protestant.” 

“From conviction?” — 

“So long as I believed in the possibility of marrying 
several millions—yes, from conviction. These millions 
would have made me happy, and surely I might allow myself 
to become a Protestant in order to be happy.” 

“Once for all, how many times have you changed your 
religion?” said the king, thoughtfully. 

“Oh, not very often, sire! I am forever zealously seek- 
ing after the true faith, and so long as I do not find that 
religion which makes me content with such things as I have, 
I am forced to change in justice to myself. In my child- 
hood I was baptized and brought up a Lutheran, and I had 
nothing against it, and remained in that communion till I 
went to Rome; there I saw the Holy Father, the Pope, per- 
form mass, and the solemn ceremony roused my devotional 
feelings to such a height that I became a Catholic imme- 
diately. This was, however, no change of religion. Up to 
this time I had not acted for myself; so the Catholic may be 
justly called my first faith.” 

“Yes, yes! that was about the time you stole your dying 
bride’s diamonds and fled from France.” 

“Oh, your majesty, that is a wicked invention of my ene- 
mies, and utterly unfounded. If I had really stolen and sold 
those magnificent brilliants—worth half a million—from my 
dying love, it would have been sufficient to assure me a lux- 
urious life, and I should not have found it imperative to be- 
come a Catholic.” . 

“ Ah, you confess, then, that you did not become a Cath- 
olic from conviction, but in order to obtain the favor of the 
cardinals and the Pope?” 

“ Nothing escapes the quick eye of your majesty, so I 
will not dare to defend myself. I came back to Berlin then, 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 4] 


a Catholic, and the ever-blessed king received me graciously. 
He was a noble and a pious man, and my soul was seized with 
a glowing desire to imitate him. I saw, indeed, how little I 
had advanced on the path to glory by becoming a Catholic! 
I made a bold resolve and entered the Reformed Church.” 

“ And by this adroit move you obtained your object: you 
became the favorite of my father the king. As he, unhap- 
pily,can show you no further favor, it is no longer prudent to 
be a reformer, so you are again a Lutheran—from con- 
viction! ” 

“ Oh, all the world knows the great, exalted, and unpreju- 
diced mind of our young king,” said Péllnitz. “It is to him 
a matter of supreme indifference what religious sect a man 
belongs to, so he adopts that faith which makes him a brave, 
réliable, and serviceable subject of his king and his father- 
land.” 

Frederick cast a dark and contemptuous glance at him. 
“You are a miserable mocker and despiser of all holy things; 
you belong to that large class who, not from convictions of 
reason, but from worldly-mindedness and licentiousness, do 
not believe in the Christian religion. Such men can never 
be honest; they have, perhaps, from their childhood been 
preached to, not to do evil from fear of hell-fire; and so soon 
as they cease to believe in hell-fire, they give themselves up 
to vice without remorse. You are one of these most miser- 
able wretches; and I say to you, that you will at last suffer 
the torments of the damned. I know there is a hell-fire, but 
it ean only be found in a man’s conscience! Now go and 
enter at once upon your duties; in two hours I will receive 
Count Tessin in the palace at Berlin.” 

Péllnitz made the three customary bows and left theroom. 
The king gazed after him contemptuously. “He is a fin- 
ished scoundrel!” Then turning to Fredersdorf, who at 
that moment entered the room, he said, “I believe Péllnitz 
would sell his mother if he was in want of money. You 
have brought me back a charming fellow; I rejoice that 
there are no more of the race; Pdllnitz has at least the fame 
of being alone in his style. Is there any one else who asks 
an audience?” 

“Yes, sire. the antechamber is full, and every man de- 


42 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


clares that his complaint can only be made personally to 
your majesty. It will require much time to listen to all 
these men, and would be, besides, a bad example. If your 
majesty receives fifty men to-day, a hundred will demand 
audience to-morrow; they must therefore be put aside; 
{ have advised them all to make their wishes known in 
writing.” 

“Well, I think every man knows that is the common 
mode of proceeding; as these people have not adopted it, it 
is evident they prefer speaking to me. There are many 
things which can be better said than written. A king has 
no right to close his ear to his subjects. A ruler should 
not resemble a framed and curtained picture of a god, only 
on rare and solemn occasions to be stared and wondered at; 
he must be to his people what the domestic altar and the 
household god was to the Romans, to which they drew near 
at all hours with consecrated hearts and pious memories. 
Here they made known all their cares, their sorrows, and 
their joys; here they found comfort and peace. I will 
never withdraw myself from my subjects; no, I will be the 
household god of my people, and will lend a willing ear to 
all their prayers and complaints. Turn no man away, Fre- 
dersdorf; I will announce it publicly, that every man has the 
right to appeal to me personally.” 

“My king is great and good,” said Fredersdorf, sadly : 

“every man but myself can offer his petition to your maj- 
esty and hope for grace; the king’s ear is closed only to me; 
to my entreaties he will not listen.” 

“ Fredersdorf, you complain that I will not give my con- 
sent to your marriage. What would you? I love you too 
well to give you up; but when you take a wife you will be 
forever lost to me. A man cannot serve two masters, and I 
will not divide your heart with this Mademoiselle Daum; 
you must give it to me entire! Do not call me cruel, Fre- 
dersdorf; believe that I love you and cannot give you up.” 

“Oh, sire, I shall only truly belong to you in love and 
gratitude, when you permit me to be happy and wed the 
maiden I so fondly love.” 

“T will have no married private secretary, nor will I 
have a married secretary of state,” said the king, with a 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 43 


dark frown. “Say not another word, Fredersdorf; put 
these thoughts away from you! My God, there are so many 
other things on which you could have set your heart! why 
must it be ever on a woman?” 

“ Because I love her passionately, your majesty.” 

“ Ah, bah! do you not love other things with Which you 
ean console yourself? You are a scholar and an alchemist. 
Well, then, read Horace; exercise yourself in the art of 
making gold, and forget this Mademoiselle Daum, who, be it 
said, in confidence between us, has no other fascination 
than that she is rich. As to her wealth, that can have but 
little charm for you, who, without doubt, will soon have 
control of all the treasures of the world. By God’s help, or 
the devil’s, you will very soon, I suppose, discover the secret 
of making gold.” 

“He has, indeed, heard my conversation with Joseph,” 
said Fredersdorf to himself, and ashamed and confused, he 
cast his eyes down before the laughing glance of the king. 

“Read your Horace diligently,” said Frederick—* you 
know he is also my favorite author; you shall learn one of 
his beautiful songs by heart, and repeat it to me.” 

The king walked up and down the room, and cast, from 
time to time, a piercing glance at Fredersdorf. He then 
repeated from Horace these two lines: 


“* Torment not your heart 
With the rich offering of a bleeding lamb.’” 


“T see well,” said Fredersdorf, completely confused, “I 
see well that your majesty knows—” 

“That it is high time,” said the king, interrupting him, 
“to go to Berlin; you do well to remind me of it. Order 
my carriage—lI will be off at once.” 


44 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


CHAPTER V. 


HOW THE PRINCESS ULRICA BECAME QUEEN OF SWEDEN. 


PRINCESS ULRICA, the eldest of the two unmarried sisters 
of the king, paced her room with passionate steps. The 
king had just made the queen-mother a visit, and had com- 
manded that his two sisters should be present at the inter- 
view. 

Frederick was gay and talkative. He told them that the 
Signora Barbarina had arrived, and would appear that even- 
ing at the castle theatre. He invited his mother and the two 
princesses to be present. He requested them to make taste- 
ful and becoming toilets, and to be bright and amiable at the 
ball and supper after the theatre. The king implored them 
both to be gay: the one, in order to show that she was 
neither angry nor jealous; the other, that she was proud 
and happy. 

The curiosity of the two young girls was much excited, 
and they urged the king to explain his mysterious words. 
He informed them that Count Tessin, the Swedish ambassa- 
dor, would be present at the ball; that he was sent to Ber- 
lin to select a wife for the prince royal of Sweden, or, rather, 
to receive one; the choice, it appeared, had been already 
made, as the count had asked the king if he might make 
proposals for the hand of the Princess Amelia, or if she 
were already promised in marriage. The king replied that 
Amelia was bound by no contract, and that proposals from 
Sweden would be graciously received. 

“Be, therefore, lovely and attractive,” said the king, 
placing his hand caressingly upon the rosy cheek of his little 
sister; “prove to the count that the intellectual brow of 
my sweet sister is fitted to wear a crown worthily.” 

The queen-mother glanced toward the window into which 
the Princess Ulrica had hastily withdrawn. . 

“ And will your majesty really consent that the youngest 
of my daughters shall be first married?” 

The king followed the glance of his mother, and saw the 
frowning brow and trembling lip of his sister. Frederick 











a ee Oe a ee ee 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 45 


feared to increase the mortification of Ulrica, and seemed, 
therefore, not to observe her withdrawal. 

“T think,” said he, “your majesty was not older than 
Amelia when you married my father; and if the crown 
prince of Sweden wishes to marry Amelia, I see no reason 
why we should refuse him. Happily, we are not Jews, and 
our laws do not forbid the younger sister to marry first. To 
refuse the prince the hand of Amelia, or to offer him the 
hand of Ulrica, would indicate that we feared the latter 
might remain unsought. I think my lovely and talented 
sister does not deserve to be placed in such a mortifying 
position, and that her hand will be eagerly sought by other 
royal wooers.” 
~ And, for myself, I am not at all anxious to marry,” said 
Ulrica, throwing her head back proudly, and casting a half- 
contemptuous, half-pitiful look at Amelia. “I have no wish 
to marry. Truly, I have not seen many happy examples of 
wedded life in our family. All my sisters are unhappy, 
and I see no reason why I should tread the same thorny 
path.” 

The king smiled. “I see the little Ulrica shares my 
aversion to wedded life, but we cannot expect, dearest, that 
all the world should be equally wise. We will, therefore, 
allow our foolish sister Amelia to wed, and run away from 
us. This marriage will cost her anxiety and sorrow; she 
must not only place her little feet in the land of reindeers, 
bears, and eternal snows, but she must also be baptized and 
adopt a new religion. Let us thank God, then, that the 
prince has had the caprice to pass you by and choose Amelia, _ 
who, I ean see, is resolved to be married. We will, there- 
fore. leave the foolish child to her fate.” 

It was Frederick’s intention, by these light jests, to com- 
fort his sister Ulrica, and give her time to collect herself. 
He did not remark that his words had a most painful effect 
upon his younger sister, and that she became deadly pale as 
he said she must change her faith in order to become prin- 
cess royal of Sweden. 

The proud queen-mother had also received this an- 
nouncement angrily. “I think, sire,” said she, “that the 
daughter of William the Second, and the sister of the King 


46 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCT; OR, 


of Prussia, might be allowed to remain true to the faith of 
her fathers.” 

“ Madame,” said the king, bowing reverentially, “the 
question is not, I am sorry to say, as to Amelia’s father or 
brother; she will be the mother of sons, who, according to 
the law of the land, must be brought up in the religion of 
their father. You see, then, that if this marriage takes 
place, one of the two contracting parties must yield; and, 
it appears to me, that is the calling and the duty of the 
woman.’ 

“Oh, yes,” said the queen bitterly, “ you have been edu- 
cated in too good a school, and are too thoroughly a Hohen- 
zollern, not to believe in the complete self-renunciation of 
women. At this court, women have only to obey.” 

“Nevertheless, the women do rule over us; and even 
when we appear to command, we are submissive and obe- 
dient,” said the king, as he kissed his mother’s hand and 
withdrew. 

The three ladies also retired to their own rooms imme- 
diately. Each one was too much occupied with her own 
thoughts to bear the presence of another. 

And now, being alone, the Princess Ulrica found it no 
longer necessary to retain the smiles which she had so long 
and with such mighty effort forced to play upon her lips; 
every pulse was beating with glowing rage, and she gave free 
course to her scorn. 

Her younger sister, this little maiden of eighteen years, 
was to be married, to wed a future king; while she, the 
eldest, now two-and-twenty, remained unchosen! And it was 
not her own disinclination nor the will of the king which 
led to this shameful result; no! the Swedish ambassador 
came not to seek her hand, but that of her sister! She, the 
elder, was scorned—set aside. The king might truthfully 
say there was no law of the land which forbade the mar- 
riage of the younger sister before the elder; but there was 
a law of custom and of propriety, and this law was trampled 
upon. 

As Ulrica thought over these things, she rose from her 
seat with one wild spring. On entering the room she had 
been completely overcome, and, with trembling knees, she 


i 


————— eee 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 47 > 


had fallen upon the divan. She stood now, however, like a 
tigress prepared for attack, and looking for the enemy she 
was resolved to slay. The raging, stormy blood of the Ho- 
henzollerns was aroused. The energy and pride of her 
mother glowed with feverish pulses in her bosom. She 
would have been happy to find an enemy opposed to her, the 
waves of passion rushing through her veins might have been 
assuaged; but she was alone, entirely alone, and had no 
other enemy to overcome than herself. She must, then, 
declare war against her own évil heart. With wild steps she 
rushed to the glass, and scrutinizingly and fiercely examined 
her own image. Her eye was cold, searching, and stern. 
Yes, she would prove herself; she would know if it were any 
thing in her own outward appearance which led the Swedish 
ambassador to choose her sister rather than herself. 

“Tt is true, Amelia is more beautiful, in the common 
acceptation of the word; her eyes are larger, her cheek 
rosier, her smile more fresh and youthful, and her small but 
graceful figure is at the same time childlike and voluptuous. 
She would make an enchanting shepherdess, but is not fitted 
to be a queen. She has no majesty, no presence. She has 
not by nature that imposing gravity, which is the gift of 
Providence, and cannot be acquired, and without which the 
queen is sometimes forgotten in the woman. Amelia can 
never attain that eternal calm, that exalted composure, 
which checks all approach to familiarity, and which, by an 
almost imperceptible pressure of the hand and a light smile, 
bestows more happiness and a more liberal reward than the 
most impassioned tenderness and the warmest caresses of a 
commonplace woman. No, Amelia could never make a 
complete queen, she can only be a beautiful woman; while 
J—I know that I am less lovely, but I feel that I am born to 
rule. I have the grace and figure of a queen—yes, I have 
the soul of a queen! I would understand how to be impos- 
ing, and, at the same time, to obtain the love of my people, 
not from any weak thirst for love, but from a queenly ambi- 
tion. Rut T am set aside, and Amelia will be a queen; my 
fate will be that of my elder sisters, I shall wed a poor mar- 
grave, or paltry duke, and may indeed thank God if I am not 
an old maiden princess, with a small pension.” 


48 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCTI; OR, 


She stamped wildly upon the floor, and paced the room 
with hasty steps. Suddenly she grew calmer, her brow, 
which had been overshadowed by dark clouds, cleared, and 
a faint smile played upon those lips which a moment before 
had been compressed by passion. 

“ After all,” she said, “the formal Pe for the hand 
of Amelia has not yet been made; perhaps the ambassador 
has mistaken my name for that of Amelia, and as he has 
made no direct proposition, I am convinced he wishes to 
make some observations before deciding. Now, if the result 
of this examination should prove to him that Amelia is not 
fitted to be the wife of his prince, and if Amelia herself— 
I thought I saw that she turned pale as the king spoke of 
abandoning her faith; and when she left the room, despair 
and misery were written upon that face which should have 
glowed with pride and triumph. Ah, I see land!” said 
Ulrica, breathing freely and sinking comfortably upon the 
divan, “I am no longer hopelessly shipwrecked; I have 
found a plank, which may perhaps save me. Let me con- 
sider calmly,”’—and, as if Fate itself were playing into her 
hand, the door opened and Amelia entered. 

One glance was sufficient to show Ulrica that she was not 
deceived, and that this important event had brought no joy 
to poor Amelia. The lovely eyes of the princess were red 
with weeping; and the soft lips, so generally and gladly 
given to gay chat and merry laughter, were now expressive 
of silent anguish. Ulrica saw all this, and laid her plans ac- 
cordingly. In place of receiving Amelia coldly and re- 
pulsively, which but a few moments before she would have 
done, she sprang to meet her with every sign of heart-felt 
love; the little maiden threw herself weeping convulsively 
into her sister’s arms, and was pressed closely and tenderly 
to her bosom. 

“Tears!” said Ulrica lovingly, as she drew her sister to 
the sofa and pressed her down upon the soft pillows; “ you 
weep, and yet a splendid future is this day secured to you! ” 

Amelia sobbed yet more loudly and pressed her tear- 
stained face more closely to the bosom of her sister. Ulrica 
looked down with a mixture of curiosity and triumph; she 
could not understand these tears; but she had a secret satis- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 49 


faction in seeing the person she most envied weeping so 
bitterly. 

“ How is this? are you not happy to be a queen?” 

Amelia raised her face hastily and sobbed out: “ No! I 
am not pleased to be an apostate, to perjure myself! I am 
not content to deny my faith in order to buy a miserable 
earthly crown! I have sworn to be true to my God and my 
faith, and now I am commanded to lay it aside like a perish- 
able robe, and take another in exchange.” 

“ Ah, is it that?” said Ulrica, with a tone of contempt 
she could searcely control; “you fear this bold step by 
which your poor innocent soul may be compromised.” 

“T will remain true to the belief in which I have been 
educated, and to which I have dedicated myself at the 
altar!” cried Amelia, bursting again into tears, 

“Tt is easy to see that but a short time only has elapsed 
since you took these vows upon you. You have all the fa- 
naticism of a new convert. How would our blessed father 
rejoice if he could see you now!” 

“He would not force me to deny my religion; he would 
not, for the sake of outward splendor, endanger my soul’s 
salvation. Oh! it is harsh and cruel of my brother to treat 
me as a piece of merchandise; he asks not whether my heart 
or principles can conscientiously take part in his ambitious 
plans.” 

Ulrica cast a long and piercing glance upon her sister. 
She would gladly have searched to the bottom of her soul; 
she wished to know if this fierce opposition to the marriage 
was the result of love to the faith of her fathers. 

“ And you are not ambitious? you are not excited by the 
thought of being a queen, of marrying a man who will fill 
a place in the world’s history?” 

The young girl raised her eyes in amazement, and her 
tears ceased to flow. 

“What has a woman to do with the wollte history?” 
she said; “think you I care to be named as the wife of a 
king of Sweden? It is a sad, unhappy fate to be a princess. 
We are sold to him who makes the largest offer and the most 
favorable conditions. Well, let it be so; it is the fate of all 
princesses; it is for this we are educated, and must bow 


50 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


humbly to the yoke; but liberty of conscience should be at 
least allowed us, freedom of thought, the poor consolation of 
worshipping God in the manner we prefer, and of seeking 


help and protection in the arms of that religion we believe ~ 


in and love.” 

“One can be faithful to God even when unfaithful to 
their first faith,” said Ulrica, who began already to make 
excuses to herself for the change of religion she contem- 
plated. : 

“ That is not in my power!” cried Amelia passionately. 

“TI cling to the religion of my house, and I shouid tremble 
before the wrath of God if I gave it up.” 

“ Atter all, it is but « small and unimportant difference 
between the Reformed and Lutheran Churches,” said Ulrica, 
much excited, and entirely forgetting that the question had 
as yet no relation to herself. “One can be as pious a Chris- 
tian in the Reformed Church as in the Lutheran.” 

“Not I; it is not in my power,” said Amelia, with the 
wilfulness of a spoiled child not accustomed to opposition. 
“T will not become a Lutheran. A Pdéllnitz may change 
his faith, but not the daughter of Frederick William. Did 
not the king with indignation and contempt relate to us 
how Péllnitz had again changed his religion and become a 
Protestant? Did we not laugh heartily, and in our hearts 
despise the dishonorable man? I will not place myself in 
such a position.” 

“Then, my sister, there will be stormy times and stern | 
strife in our household: the bitter scenes of earlier days 
will be renewed. Our royal brother is not less resolute than 
our stern father. I fear that his brothers and sisters are 
nothing more to him than useful instruments in this great 
state machine, and they must bow themselves unquestion- 
ingly to his commands.” 

“Yes, I feel this; I see it clearly,” said Amelia, trem- 
bling; “and for this reason, dear sister, you must stand by 
me and help me. I swear to you that I will not become a 
Lutheran.” 

“Ts that your unchangeable resolution?” 

“Yes, unchangeable.” 

“ Well, if that is so, I will give you my counsel.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 5% 


“ Speak, speak quickly,” said Amelia, breathlessly, and 
throwing her arms around the slender waist of her sister, 
she laid her head trustingly upon her shoulder. 

“ Firstly, the Swedish ambassador has not made a formal 
demand for your hand; that probably proves that he will 
first examine and observe you closely, to see if you are suited 
to be the wife of the prince royal. We have still, therefore, 
a short delay, which, if wisely used, may conduct you to 
the desired goal. But, Amelia, prove yourself once more; 
ask counsel again of your heart and conscience, before you 
make a final resolve. I will not have you complain of me in 
future, and say that my foolish and guilty counsel lost you 
the throne of Sweden.” 

“ Oh, fear not, my beloved sister. I will not be queen of 
Sweden at the cost of my immortal soul.” 

“You will not, then, reproach me, Amelia?” 

“ Never.” 

“Listen, then. From this moment lay a mask upon your 
face; that is to say, assume a proud, rude, overbearing tone 
to all around you—toward your friends, your servants, the 
court circle, yes, even toward the members of your family. 
Particularly in’ the presence of this Swedish ambassador, 
show yourself to be a capricious, nervous, and haughty prin- 
cess, who scarcely thinks it worth the trouble to speak a 
word, or give a friendly glance, to a man in his position. 
When you speak to him and he attempts to answer, cut short 
his replies, and command him to be silent; if he strives to 
win your favor by the most respectful civility, let an un- 
mistakable expression of contempt bewritten upon your face, 
and let that be your only answer. Regulate your conduct 
for a few days by these rules, and I am convinced you will 
attain your object.” 

“Yes, yes! I understand, I understand!” said the yourg 
girl, clapping her little white hands, and looking up joyously. 
“T shall, by my pride and passion, freeze the words in the 
mouth of my lord ambassador, so that the decisive word can- 
not find utterance. Oh! this will be a precious comedy, 
my sweet sister, and I promise you to carry out my réle of 
heroine to perfection. Oh, I thank you! I thank you! 
I am indeed happy to have found so wise a sister, su 


59 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCT; OR, 


brave a comrade in arms, while surrounded with such 
perils! ” 

“She would not have it otherwise,” said Ulrica, laconic- 
ally, as she found herself again alone. “If she is without 
ambition, so much the worse for her—so much the better for 
me! And now, it is high time to think of my toilet—that is 
the most important consideration. To-day I must be not 
only amiable, but lovely. To-day I will appear an innocent 
and unpretending maiden.” 

With a mocking smile she entered her boudoir, and 
called her attendants. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE TEMPTER. 


PRINCESS ULRICA was earnestly occupied with considera- 
tions of her toilet. Amelia had returned to her room, mus- 
ing and thoughtful. 

There were difficulties in the way of the new réle she 
had resolved to play, and by which she expected to deceive 
the world. She stood for a moment before the door of her 
dressing-room, and listened to the voices of her attendants, 
who were gayly laughing and talking. It was her custom to 
join them, and take a ready part in their merry sports and 
jests. She must now, however, deny herself, and put a guard 
over her heart and lips. Accordingly, with a dark frown 
on her brow and tightly-compressed lips, she entered the 
room in which her maids were at that moment arranging her 
ball toilet for the evening. 

“It seems to me that your loud talking is most unseemly,” 
said Amelia, in a tone so haughty, so passionate, that the 
smiles of the two young girls vanished in clouds. “TI will 
be obliged to you if you will complete your work noiselessly, 
and reserve your folly till you have left my room! And 
what is that, Mademoiselle Félicien? for what purpose have 
you prepared these flowers, which I see lying upon your 
table? ” 


Ee -” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 53 


“Your royal highness, these flowers are for your coif- 
fure, and these bouquets are intended to festoon your dress.” 

“ Tow dare you allow yourself to decide upon my ‘oilet, 
mademoiselle ? ” 

“ T have not dared,” said Félicien, tremblingly; “ your 
royal highness ordered moss roses for your hair, and bou- 
quets of the same for your bosom and your robe.” 

“Tt appears to me,” said Amelia, imperiously, “that to 
contradict me, and at the same time assert that which is 
false, is, to say the least, unbecoming your position. I am 
not inclined to appear in the toilet of a gardener’s daughter. 
To prove this, I will throw these flowers, which you dare to 
assert I ordered, from the window; with their strong odor 
they poison the air.” 

With a cruel hand, she gathered up the lovely roses, and 
hastened to the window. ‘“ Look, mademoiselle, these are 
the flowers which you undertook to prepare for my hair,” 
said Amelia, with well-assumed scorn, as she threw the 
bouquet into the garden which surrounded the castle of 
Monbijou; “look, mademoiselle.” 

Suddenly the princess uttered a iow cry, and looked, 
blushing painfully, into the garden. In her haste, she had 
not remarked that two gentlemen, at that moment, crossed 
the great court which led to the principal door of the castle; 
and the flowers which she had so scornfully rejected, had 
struck the younger and taller of the gentlemen exactly in 
the face. He stood completely amazed, and looked question- 
ingly at the window from which this curious bomb had fallen. 
His companion, however, laughed aloud, and made a pro- 
found bow to the princess, who still stood, blushing and em- 
_ barrassed, at the window. 

“From this hour I believe in the legend of the Fairy of 
the Roses,” said the elder of the two gentlemen, who was in- 
deed no other than Baron Péllnitz. “ Yes, princess, I be- 
lieve fully, and I would not be at all astonished if your 
highness should at this moment flutter from the window in 
a chariot drawn by doves, and cast another shower of blos- 
soms in the face of my friend.” 

The princess had found time to recover herself, and to 
remember the haughty part she was determined to play. 


54 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“T hope, baron,” she said, sternly, “you will not allow 
yourself to suppose it was my purpose to throw those roses 
either to your companion or yourself? I wished only to get 
rid of them.” ' 

She shut the window rudely and noisily, and commanded 
her attendants to complete her toilet at once. She seated 
herself sternly before the glass, and ordered her French maid 
to cover her head with jewels and ribbons. 

The two gentlemen still stood in the garden, in earnest 
conversation. 

“This is assuredly an auspicious omen, my friend,” said 
Péllnitz to the young officer, who was gazing musingly at the 
roses he held in his hand. He had raised his eyes from the 
flowers to the window at which the lovely form of the prin- 
cess had, for a few moments, appeared. | 

“ Alas!” said he, sighing, and gazing afar off; “she is 
so wonderfully beautiful—so lovely; and she is a ae 
cess! ” 

Péllnitz laughed heartily. “One might think that you re- 
gretted that fact! Listen to me, my young friend; stand 
no longer here, in a dream. Come, in place of entering the 
castle immediately, to pay our respects to the queen-mother, 
we will take a walk through the garden, that you may allay 
your raptures and recover your reason.” 

He took the arm of the young man, and drew him into a 
shady, private pathway. 

“Now, my dear friend, listen to me, and lay to heart all 
that I say to you. Accident, or, if you prefer it, Fate 
brought us together. After all, it seems indeed more than 
an accident. I had just returned to Berlin, and was about 
to pay my respects to the queen-mother, when I met you, 
who at the same time seek an audience, in order to commend 
yourself to her royal protection. You bear a letter of com- 
mendation from my old friend, Count Lottum. All this, of 
course, excites my curiosity. I ask your name, and learn, 
to my astonishment, that you are young Von Trenck, the 
son of the woman who was my first love, and who made me 
most unhappy by not returning my passion. I assure you, 
it produces a singular sensation to meet so unexpectedly the 
son of a first love, whose father, alas! you have not the hap- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 55 


piness to be. I feel already that I am prepared to love you 
as foolishly as I once loved your fair mother.” 

“T will not, like my mother, reject your vows,” said the 
young officer, smiling, and extending his hand to Péllnitz. 

“T hoped as much,” said Péllnitz; “you shall find a 
fond father in me, and even to-day I will commence my 
parental duties. In the first place, what brings you here?” 

“To make my fortune—to become a general, or field- 
marshal, if possible,” said the young man, laughing. 

“ How old are you?” 

“T am nineteen.” 

“You wear the uniform of an officer of the life-guard; 
the king has, therefore, already promoted you?” 

“T was a cadet but eight days,” said Trenck, proudly. 
“My step-father, Count Lottum, came with me from Dant- 
zic, and presented me to the king. His majesty received me 
graciously, and remembered well that I had received, at the 
examination at Kénigsberg, the first prize from his hand.” 

“ Go on, go on,” said Péllnitz; “ you see I am all ear, and 
I must know your present position in order to be useful to 
you.” 

“The king, as I have said, received me graciously, even 
kindly; he made me a cadet in his cavalry corps, and three 
weeks after, I was summoned before him; he had heard 
something of my wonderful memory, and he wished to prove 
me.” 

“Well, how did you stand the proof?” 

“T stood with the king at the window, and he called over 
to me quickly the names of fifty soldiers who were standing 
in the court below, pointing to each man as he called his 
name. I then repeated to him every name in the same suc- 
cession, but backward.” 

“ A wonderful memory, indeed,” said Péllnitz, taking a 
pinch of Spanish snuff; “a terrible memory, which would 
make me shudder if I were your sweetheart! ” 

“And why?” said the young officer. 

“ Because you would hold ever in remembrance all her 
eaprices and all her oaths, and one day, when she no longer 
loved you, she would be held to a strict account. Well, did 
the king subject you to further proof?” 


56 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“Yes; he gave me the material for two letters, which I 
dictated at the same time to his secretaries, one in French 
and one in Latin. He then commanded me to draw the 
plan of the Hare Meadow, and I did so.” 

“Was he pleased?” 

“He made me cornet of the guard,” said Trenck, modest- 
ly avoiding a more direct answer. 

“T see you are in high favor: in three weeks you are 
promoted from cadet to lieutenant! quick advancement, 
which the king, no doubt, signalized by some other act of 
grace?” 

“He sent me two horses from his stable, and when I 
came to thank him, he gave me a purse containing two 
hundred ‘ Fredericks.’ ” 

Pollnitz gave a spring backward. “Thunder! you are 
indeed in favor! the king gives you presents! Ah, my 
young friend, I would protect you, but it seems you can 
patronize me. The king has never made me a present. 
And what do you desire to-day of the queen-mother? ” 

“ As I am now a lieutenant, I belong to the court circle, 
and must take part in the court festivals. So the king com- 
manded me to pay my respects to the queen-mother.” 

“Ah, the king ordered that?” said Pdollnitz; “truly, 
young man, the king must destine you for great things— 
he overloads you with favors. You will make a glittering 
career, provided you are wise enough to escape the shoals 
and quicksands in your way. I can tell you, there will be 
adroit and willing hands ready to cast you down; those who 
are in favor at court have always bitter enemies.” 

“Yes, I am aware that I have enemies,” said Trenck; 
“more than once I have already been charged with being a 
drunkard and a rioter; but the king, happily, only laughed 
at the accusations.” 

“ He is really in high favor, and I would do well to secure 
his friendship,” thought Péllnitz; “the king will also be 
pleased with me if I am kind to him.” He held out his 
hand to the young officer, and said, with fatherly tenderness: 
“From this time onward, when your enemies shall please 
to attack you, they shall not find you alone; they will find 
me a friend ever at your side. You are the son of the only 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 57 


woman I ever loved—I will cherish you in my heart as my 
first-born! ” 

“ And I receive you as my father with my whole heart,” 
said Trenck; “be my father, my friend, and my counsellor.” 

“The court is a dangerous and slippery stage, upon 
which a young and inexperienced man may lightly slip, un- 
less held up by a strong arm. Many will hate you because 
you are in favor, and the hate of many is like the sting of 
hornets: one sting is not fatal, but a general attack some- ~ 
times brings death. Make use, therefore, of your sunshine, 
and fix yourself strongly in an immovable position.” 

“The great question is, what shall be my first step to se- 
cure it?” 

“How! you ask that question, and you are nineteen years 
old, six feet high, have a handsome face, a splendid figure, 
an old, renowned name, and are graciously received at court? 
Ah! youngster, I have seen many arrive at the highest 
honors and distinctions, who did not possess half your glit- 
tering qualities. If you use the right means at the right 
time, you cannot fail of success.” 

“ What do you consider the best means?” 

“The admiration and favor of women! You must gain 
the love of powerful and influential women. Oh, you are 
terrified, and your brow is clouded! perhaps, unhappily, you 
_ are already in love?” 

“No!” said Frederick von Trenck, violently. “I have 
never been in love. I dare say more than that: I have 
never kissed the lips of a woman.” 

Péllnitz gazed at him with an expression of indescribable 
amazement. “ How!” said he; “you are nineteen, and as- 
sert that you have never embraced a woman?” He gave a 
mocking and cynical laugh. 

“ Ordinary women have always excited my disgust,” said 
the young officer, simply; “and until this day I have never 
seen a woman who resembled my ideal.” 

“So, then, the woman with whom you will now become 
enamored will receive your first tender vows?” 

“ Yes, even so.” 

“ And you wear the uniform of the life-guard—you are 
a lieutenant!” cried Péllnitz with tragical pathos, and ex- 


58 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


tending his arms toward heaven. “But how?—what did 
you say?—that until to-day you had seen no woman who 
approached your ideal?” 

“T said that.” 

“ And to-day—?” 

“Well, it seems to me, we have both seen an angel to- 
day !—an angel, whom you have Mins in giving her the 
common name of fairy.” 

“ Aha! the Princess Amelia,” said Péllnitz. “You will 
love this young maiden, my friend.” 

“ Then, indeed, shall I be most unhappy! She is a royal 
princess, and my love must ever be unrequited.” 

“ Who told you that? who told you that this little Amelia 
was only a princess? I tell you she is a young girl with a 
heart of fire. Try to awake her—she only sleeps! A happy 
event has already greeted you. The princess has fixed your 
enraptured gaze upon her lovely form, by throwing or rather 
shooting roses at you. Perhaps the god of Love has hidden 
his arrow in a rose. You thought Amelia had only pelted 
your cheek with roses, but the arrow has entered your 
soul. Try your luck, young man; gain the love of the 
king’s favorite sister, and you will be all-powerful.” 

The young officer looked at him with confused and misty 
eyes. 

“You do not dare to suggest,” murmured he, “ that—” 

“TI dare to say,” cried Pollnitz, interrupting him, “ that 
-you are in favor with the brother; why may you not also 
gain the sister’s good graces? I say further, that I will 
assist you, and I will ever be at your side, as a loving friend 
and a sagacious counsellor.” 

“ Do you know, baron, that your wild words open a future 
to my view before which my brain and heart are reeling? 
How shall I dare to love a princess, and seek her love in re- 
turn ?” 

“ As to the first point, I think you have already dared. 
As to the second, I think your rare beauty and wondrous ac- 
complishments might justify such pretensions.” 

“You know I never can become the husband of a prin- 
cess.” 

“You are right,” said Péllnitz, laughing aloud; “you 





| 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 59 


are as innocent as a girl of sixteen! you have this moment 
fallen headlong in love, and begin at once to think of the 
possibility of marriage, as if love had no other refuge than 
marriage, and yet I think I have read that the god of Love 
and the god of Hymen are rarely seen together, though 
brothers; in point of fact, they despise and flee from each 
other. But after all, young man, if your love is virtuous and 
requires the priest’s blessing, I think that is possible. Only 
a few years since the widowed margravine, the aunt of the 
king, married the Count Hoditz. What the king’s aunt ac- 
complished, might be possible to the king’s sister.” 

“ Silence, silence!” murmured Frederick von Trenck; 
“your wild words cloud my understanding like the breath of 
opium; they make me mad, drunk. You stand near me like 
the tempter, showing to my bewildered eyes more than all 
the treasures of this world, and saying, ‘All these things will 
I give thee’; but alas! I am not the Messiah. I have not 
the courage to cast down and trample under foot your devil- 
ish temptations. My whole soul springs out to meet them, 
and shouts for joy. Oh, sir, what have you done? You have 
aroused my youth, my ambition, my passion; you have filled 
my veins with fire, and I am drunk with the sweet but deadly 
poison you have poured into my ears.” 

“T have assured you that I will be your father. I will 
lead you, and at the right moment I will point out the ob- 
stacles against which your inexperienced feet might stum- 
ble,” said Péllnitz. 

The stony-hearted and egotistical old courtier felt not the 
least pity for this poor young man into whose ear, as Trenck 
had well said, he was pouring this fatal poison. Frederick 
von Trenck, the favorite of the king, was nothing more to 
him than a ladder by which he hoped to mount. He took 
the arm of the young officer and endeavored to soothe him 
with cool and moderate words, exhorting him to be quiet and 
reasonable. They turned their steps toward the castle, in 
erder to pay their respects to the queen-mother. The hour 
of audience was over, and the two gentlemen lounged arm 
in arm down the street. 

“Let us go toward the palace,” said Péllnitz. “I think 
we will behold a rare spectacle, a crowd of old wigs who have 


60 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


disguised themselves as savans. To-day, the first sitting 
of the Academy of Arts and Sciences takes place, and the 
celebrated President Maupertius will open the meeting in 
the name of the king. This is exactly the time for the 
renowned worthies to leave the castle. Let us go and wit- 
ness this comical show.” 

The two gentlemen found it impossible to carry out their 
plans. A mighty crowd of men advanced upon them at this 
moment, and compelled them to stand still. Every face in 
the vast assemblage was expectant. Certainly some rare 
exhibition was to be seen in the circle which the crowd had 
left open in their midst. There were merry laughing and 
jesting and questioning amongst each other, as to what all 
this could mean, and what proclamation that could be which 
the drummer had just read in the palace garden. 

“Tt will be repeated here in a moment,” said a voice from 
thy crowd, which increased every moment, and in whose 
fierce waves Poéllnitz and Trenck were forcibly swallowed up. 
Pressed, pushed onward by powerful arms, resistance utterly 
in vain, the two companions found themselves at the same 
moment in the open space just as the drummer broke into the 
circle, and, playing his drumsticks with powerful and zeal- 
ous hands, he called the crowd to order. 

The drum overpowered the wild outeries and rude laugh- 
ter of the vast assemblage, and soon silenced them complete- 
ly. Every man held his breath to hear what the public crier, 
who had spoken so much to the purpose by his drum, had 
now to declare by word of mouth. He drew from his pocket 
a large document sealed with the state seal, and took advan- 
tage of the general quiet to read the formal introductory to 
all such proclamations: “We, Frederick, King of Prussia,” 
ete., ete. 

On coming to the throne, Frederick had abolished all that 
long and absurd list of titles and dignities which had hereto- 
fore adorned the royal declarations. Even that highest of all 
titles, “ King by the grace of God,” had Frederick the Second 
set aside. He declared that, in saying King of Prussia, all 
was said. His father had called himself King of Prussia, by 
the grace of God; he, therefore, would call himself simply 
the King of Prussia, and if he did not boast of God’s grace, 


a 


al —— — — 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 6] 


it was because he would prove by deeds, not words, that he 
possessed it. 

After this little digression we will return to our drummer. 
who now began to read, or rather to cry out the command of 
the king. 

“We, Frederick, King of Prussia, order and command 
that no one of our subjects shall, under any circumstances, 
lend gold to our master of ceremonies, whom we have again 
taken into our service, or assist him in any way to borrow 
money. Whoever, therefore, shall, in despite of this procla- 
mation, lend money to said Baron Péllnitz, must bear the 
consequences; they shall make no demand for repayment, 
and the case shall not be considered in court. Whosoever 
shall disobey this command, shall pay a fine of fifty thalers, 
or suffer fifteen days’ imprisonment.” 

A wild shout of laughter from the entire assembly was 
the reply to this proclamation, in which the worldly-wise 
Péllnitz joined heartily, while his young companion had 
not the courage to raise his eyes from the ground. 

“ The old courtier will burst with rage,” said a gay voice 
from the crowd. 

“He is a desperate borrower,” cried another. 

“He has richly deserved this public shame and humilia- 
tion from the king,” said another. 

“And you call this a humiliation, a merited punish- 
ment!” cried Péllnitz. “Why, my good friends, can you 
not see that this is an honor which the king shows to his 
old and faithful servant? Do you not know that by this 
proclamation he places Baron Péllnitz exactly on the same 
footing with the princes of the blood, with the prince 
royal?” 

“How is that? explain that to us,” cried a hundred 
voices in a breath. 

“Well, it is very simple. Has not the king recently re- 
newed the law which forbids, under pain of heavy punish- 
ment, the princes of the blood to borrow money? Is not 
this law printed in our journals, and made public in our col- 
lections of laws?” 

“Yes, yes! so it is,” said many voices simultaneously. 

“Well, certainly, our exalted sovereign, who loves his 


62 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


royal brothers so warmly, would not have cast shame upon 
their honor. Certainly he would not have wished to humil- 
iate them, and has not done so. The king, as you must now 
plainly perceive, has acted toward Baron P®ollnitz precisely 
as he has done to his brothers.” 

“ And that is, without doubt, a great honor for him,” 
cried many voices. No one guessed the name of the speaker 
who was so fortunately at hand to defend the honor of the 
master of ceremonies. A general murmur of applause was 
heard, and even the public crier stood still and listened to 
the eloquent unknown speaker, and forgot for a while to 
hurry off to the next street-corner and proclaim the royal 
mandate. 

“ Besides, this law is ‘sans conséquence,’ as we are ac- 
customed to say,” said Péllnitz. ‘“ Who would not, in spite 
of the law, lend our princes gold if they had need of it? 
And who has right to take offence if the state refuses to pay 
the debts which the princes make as private persons? The 
baron occupies precisely the same position. The king, who 
has honored the newly returned baron with two highly im- 
portant trusts, master of ceremonies and master of the 
robes, will frighten his rather lavish old friend from making 
debts. He chooses, therefore, the same means by which 
he seeks to restrain his royal brothers, and forbids all per- 
sons to lend gold to Péllnitz: as he cannot well place this 
edict in the laws of the land, he is obliged to make it known 
by the drummer. And now,” said the speaker, who saw 
plainly the favorable impression which his little oration had 
made—“ and now, best of friends, I pray you to make way 
and allow me to pass through the crowd; I must go at once 
to the palace to thank his majesty for the special grace and 
distinction which he has showered upon me to-day. I, my- 
self, am Baron Péllnitz! ” 

An outery of amazement burst from the lips of hundreds, 
and all who stood near Pollnitz stepped aside reverentially, 
in order to give place to the distinguished gentleman who 
was treated by the king exactly as if he were a prince of the 
blood. Pdéllnitz stepped with a friendly smile through the 
narrow way thus opened for him, and greeted, with his cool, 
impertinent manner those who respectfully stood back. 





: 
; 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 63 


“T think I have given the king a Roland for his Oliver,” 
he said to himself. “I have broken the point from the 
arrow which was aimed at me, and it glanced from my bosom 
without wounding me. Public opinion will be on my side 
from this time, and that which was intended for my shame 
has crowned me with honor. It was, nevertheless, a harsh 
and cruel act, for which I will one day hold a reckoning with 
Frederick. Ah, King Frederick! King Frederick! I shall 
not forget, and I will have my revenge; my cards are also 
well arranged, and I hold important trumps. I will wait 
yet a little while upon our lovelorn shepherd, this innocent 
and tender Trenck, who is in a dangerous way about the 
little princess.” 

Pdllnitz waited for Trenck, who had with difficulty forced 
his way through the crowd and hastened after him. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE FIRST INTERVIEW. 


THE ball at the palace was opened. The two queens and 
the princesses had just entered the great saloon, in order 
to receive the respectful greetings of the ladies of the court; 
while the king, in an adjoining room, was surrounded by 
the gentlemen. A glittering circle of lovely women, adorned 
with diamonds and other rich gems, stood on each side of - 
the room, each one patiently awaiting the moment when 
the queens should pass before her, and she might have the 
honor of bowing almost to the earth under the glance of the 
royal eye. 

According to etiquette, Queen Elizabeth Christine, who, 
notwithstanding her modest and retired existence, was the 
reigning sovereign, should have made the grand tour alone, 
and received the first congratulations of the court; but this 
unhappy, shrinking woman, had never found the courage 
to assume the rights or privileges which belonged to her 
as wife of the king. She who was denied the highest and 


$4 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


noliest of all distinctions, the first place in the heart of her 
husband, cared nothing for these pitiful and outward ad- 
vantages. Elizabeth had to-day, as usual, with a soft smile, 
given precedence to the queen-mother, Sophia Dorothea, 
who was ever thirsting to show that she held the first place 
at her son’s court, and who, delighted to surround herself 
with all the accessories of pomp and power, was ever ready 
to use her prerogative. With a proud and erect head, and 
an almost contemptuous smile, she walked slowly around 
the circle of high-born dames, who bowed humbly before 
this representative of royalty. Behind her came the reign- 
ing queen, between the two princesses, who now and then 
gave special and cordial greetings to their personal friends 
as they passed. Elizabeth Christine saw this and sighed 
bitterly. She had no personal friend to grace with a loving 
greeting. No man saw any thing else in her than a sov- 
ereign by sufferance, a woman sans conséquence, a powerless 
queen and unbeloved wife. She had never had a friend 
into whose sympathetic and silent bosom she could pour out 
her griefs. She was alone, so entirely alone and lonely, 
that the heavy sighs and complaints dwelling in her heart 
were ever reverberating in her ears because of the surround- 
ing silence. And now, as she made the grand tour with the 
two princesses, no one seemed to see her; she was regarded 
as the statue of a queen, richly dressed and decked with 
costly lace and jewels, but only a picture: yet this picture 
had a soul and a heart of fire—it was a woman, a wife, who 
loved and who endured. 

Suddenly she trembled; a light, like the glory of sun- 
shine, flashed in her eyes, and a soft rosy blush spread over 
her fair cheek. The king had entered the room; yes, he 
was there in all his beauty, his majesty, his power; Eliza- 
beth felt that the world was bright, her blood was rushing 
madly through her veins, her heart was beating as stormily 
as that of an impassioned young girl. Oh, it might be that 
the eye of the king—that glowing, wondrous eye—might 
even by accident rest upon her; it might be that Frederick 
would be touched by her patient endurance, her silent resig- 
nation, and give her one friendly word. She had been four 
years a queen, for four years this title had been a crown of 


oP 


—_ aT 


EE 


a 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 65 


thorns; during all this weary time her husband had not 
vouchsafed to her poor heart, sick unto death, one single 
sympathetic word, one affectionate glance; he sat by her 
side at the table during the court festivals; he had from 
time to time, at the balls and masquerades, opened the 
dance with her; never, however, since that day on which he 
had printed the first kiss upon her lips, never had he spoken 
to her; since that moment she was to him the picture of a 
queen, the empty form of a woman.* But Queen Elizabeth 
would not despair. Hope was her motto. A day might 
come when he would speak to her, when he would forget that 
she had been forced upon him as his wife, a day when his heart 
might be touched by her grief, her silent and tearless love. 
Every meeting with Frederick was to this poor queen a 
time of hope, of joyful expectation; this alone sustained 
her, this gave her strength silently, even smilingly, to draw 
her royal robe over her bleeding heart. 

And now the king drew near, surrounded by the prin- 
cesses and the queen-mother, to whom he gave his hand with 
an expression of reverence and filial love. He then bowed 
silently and indifferently to his wife, and gave a merry 
greeting to his two sisters. 

“ Ladies,” said he, in a full, rich voice, “allow me to 
present to you and my court my brother, the Prince Augus- 
tus William; he is now placed before you in a new and more 
distinguished light.” He took the hand of his brother and 
led him to the queen-mother. “I introduce your son to 
you; he will be from this day onward, if it so please you, 
also your grandson.” 


* The king never spoke to his wife, but his manner toward her was con- 
siderate and respectful; no one dared to fail in the slightest mark of courtly 
observance toward Elizabeth—this the king sternly exacted. Only once did 
the king address her. During the seventh year of their marriage, the queen, 
by an unhappy accident, had seriously injured her foot; this was a short time 
before her birthday, which event was always celebrated with — pomp and 
ceremony, the king honoring the féte with his presence. On this occasion he 
came as usual, but in place of the distant and silent bow with which he usually 
greeted her, he drew near, gave her his hand, and said with kindly sympathy, 

I sincerely hope that your majesty has recovered from your accident.” <A 
general surprise was pictured in the faces of all present—but the poor queen 
was so overcoine by this unexpected happiness, she had no power to reply, 
she bowed silently. The king frowned and turned from her. Since that 
day, the happiness of which she had bought with an injured foot, the king 
had not spoken to her. . 


65 BERLiLN «ND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ How is that, your majesty? I confess you have brought 
about many seemingly impossible things; but I think it is 
beyond your power to make Augustus at the same time 
both my son and my grandson.” . 

_“ Ah, mother, if I make him my son, will he not be of 
necessity, your grandson? I appoint him my successor; in 
so doing, I declare him my son. Embrace him, therefore, 
your majesty, and be the first to greet him by his new title. 
Embrace the Prince of Prussia, my successor.” 

“T obey,” said the queen, “I obey,” and she cast her arms. 
affectionately around her son. “I pray God that this title 
of ‘ Prince of Prussia,’ which it-has pleased your majesty to 
lend him, may be long and honorably worn.” 

The prince bowed low before his mother, wno tenderly 
kissed his brow, then whispered, “ Oh, mother, pray rather 
that God may soon release me from this burden.” 

“How!” cried the queen threateningly, “ you have tnen 
a strong desire to be king? Has your vaulting ambition 
made you forget that to wish to be king is, at the same time, 
to wish the death of your brother?” 

The prince smiled sadly. 

“ Mother, I would lay aside this rank of Prince of Prus- 
sia, not because I wish to mount the throne, but I would 
fain lie down in the cold and quiet grave.” 

“Are you always so sad, so hopeless, my son—even 
now, upon this day of proud distinction for you? To-day 
you take your place as Prince of Prussia.” 

“Yes, your majesty, to-day I am crowned with honor,” 
said he, bitterly. “This is also the anniversary of my 
betrothal.” 

Augustus turned and drew near to the king, who seized 
his hand and led him to his wife and the young princesses, 
saying with a loud voice, “Congratulate the Prince of 
Prussia, ladies.” He then beckoned to some of his generals, 
and drew back with them to the window. As he passed 
the queen, his eye rested upon her for a moment with an 
expression of sympathy and curiosity; he observed her 
with the searching glance of a physician, who sinks the probe 
into the bleeding wound in order to know its depth and 
danger. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 67 


The queen understood his purpose. That piercing glance 
was a warning; it gave her courage, self-possession, and 
proud resignation. Her husband had spoken to her with his 
eyes; that must ever be a consolation, a painful but sweet 
joy. She controlled herself so far as to give her hand to 
the prince with a cordial smile. 

“You are most welcome in your double character,” she 
said, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the king and all 
around her. “Until to-day, you have been my beloved 
brother; and from this time will you be to me, as also to my 
husband, a dear son. By the decrees of Providence a son 
has been denied me; I accept you, therefore, joyfully, and 
receive you as my son and brother.” 

A profound silence followed these words; here and there 
in the crowd, slight and derisive smiles were seen, and a few 
whispered and significant words were uttered. The queen 
had now received the last and severest blow; in the fulness 
and maturity of her beauty she had been placed before the 
court as unworthy or incapable of giving a successor to the 
throne; but she still wished to save appearances: she would, 
if possible, make the world believe that the decree of Provi- 
dence alone denied to her a mother’s honors. She had the 
cruel courage to conceal the truth by prevarication. 

The watchful eyes of the court had long since discovered 
the mystery of this royal marriage: they had long known 
that the queen was not the wife of Frederick; her words, 
therefore, produced contemptuous surprise. 

Elizabeth cared for none of these things. She looked 
toward her husband, whose eyes were fixed upon her; she 
would read in his countenance if he were pleased with her 
words. A smile played upon the lips of the king, and he 
bowed his head almost imperceptibly as a greeting to his 
wife. 

A golden ray of sunlight seemed to play upon her face; 
content was written in her eyes; twice to-day her glance had 
met her husband’s, and both times his eyes had spoken. 
Elizabeth was happier than she had been for many days; 
she laughed and jested with the ladies, and conversed gayly 
over the great event of the evening—the first appearance of 
the ieasanialr Barbarina. The princesses, also, conversed un- 


68 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


ceremoniously with the ladies near them. A cloud darkened 
the usually clear brow of the Princess Amelia, and she 
seemed to be in a nervous and highly excited state. 

At this moment the master of ceremonies, Péllnitz, drew 
near, with Count Tessin, the Swedish ambassador. The 
princess immediately assumed so scornful an expression, 
that even Péllnitz scarcely found courage to present Count 
Tessin. 

“ Ah! you come from Sweden,” said Amelia, immediate- 
ly after the presentation. “ Sweden is a dark and gloomy 
country, and you have indeed done well to save yourself, by 
taking refuge in our gay and sunny clime.” 

The count was evidently wounded. 

“Your royal highness calls this a refuge,” said he; 
“you must, then, think those to be pitied who dwell in my 
fatherland?” 

“T do not feel it necessary to confide my views on that 
subject to Count Tessin,” said Amelia, with a short, rude 
laugh. 

“Yes, sister, it is necessary,” said Ulrica, with a magical 
smile, “ you must justify yourself to the count, for you have 
cast contempt upon his country.” 

“Ah! your highness is pleased to think better of my 
fatherland,” said Tessin, bowing low to Ulrica. “It is true, 
Sweden is rich in beauty, and nowhere is nature more ro- 
mantic or more lovely. The Swedes love their country 
passionately, and, like the Swiss, they die of homesickness 
when banished from her borders. They languish and pine 
away if one is cruel enough to think lightly of their birth- 
place.” 

“ Well, sir, I commit this cruelty,” cried Amelia, “ and 
yet I scarcely think you will languish and pine away on 
that account.” 

“ Dear sister, I think you are out of temper to-day,” said 
Ulriea, softly. 

“ And you are wise to remind me of it in this courtly 
style,” said Amelia; “have you taken the réle of governess 
for my benefit to-day?” 

Ulrica shrugged her shoulders and turned again to the 
count, who was watching the young Amelia with a mixtuxe 


PP] “ 


ee ee <a oe 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 69 


of astonishment and anger. She had been represented at 
the Swedish court as a model of gentleness, amiability, and 
grace; he found her rude and contradictory, fitful and child- 
ish. The Princess Ulrica soon led the thoughts of the 
count in another direction, and managed to retain him at 
her side by her piquant and intellectual conversation; she 
brought every power of her mind into action; she was 
gracious in the extreme; she overcame her proud nature, 
and assumed a winning gentleness; in short, she flattered 
the ambassador with such delicate refinement, that he swal- 
lowed the magical food offered to his vanity, without sus- 
pecting that he was victimized. 

Neither the princess nor the count seemed any longer 
to remember Amelia, who still stood near them with a lower- 
ing visage. Pdéllnitz made use of this opportunity to draw 
near with his young protégé, Frederick von Trenck, and 
present him to the princess, who immediately assumed a gay 
and laughing expression; she wished to give the ambassa- 
dor a new proof of her stormy and fitful nature: she would 
humble him by proving that she was not harsh and rude to 
all the world. She received the two gentlemen, therefore, 
with great cordiality, and laughed heartily over the adven- 
ture of the morning; she recounted to them, merrily and 
wittily, how and why she had thrown the sweet roses away. 
Amelia was now so lovely and so spirited to look upon, so 
radiant with youth, animation, and innocence, that the eyes 
of the poor young officer were dazzled and sought the floor; 
completely intoxicated and bewildered, he could not join in 
the conversation, uttering here and there only a trembling 
monosyllable. 

This did not escape the cunning eye of the master of 
ceremonies. “I must withdraw,” thought he; “I will grant 
them a first téte-d-téte. I will observe them from a distance, 
and be able to decide if my plan will succeed.” Excusing 
himself upon the plea of duty, Péllnitz withdrew; he 
glided into a window and concealed himself behind the cur- 
tains, in order to watch the countenances of his two victims. 
Péllnitz had rightly judged. The necessity of taking part 
in the conversation with the princess restored to the young 
officer his intellect and his courage, and, in the effort to 


"0 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


overcome his timidity, he became too earnest, too impas- 
sioned. 

But the princess did not remark this; she rejoiced in an 
opportunity to show the Swedish ambassador how amiable 
and gracious she could be to others, and thus make him 
more sensible of her rudeness to himself; he should see and 
confess that she could be winning and attractive when it 
suited her purpose. The count observed her narrowly, even 
while conversing with Ulrica; he saw her ready smile, her 
beaming eye, her perhaps rather demonstrative cordiality to 
the young officer. “She is changeable and coquettish,” he 
said to himself, while still carrying on his conversation 
with the talented, refined, and thoroughly maidenly Princess 
Ulrica. 

The great and, as we have said, somewhat too strongly 
marked kindliness of Amelia, added fuel to the passion of 
Trenck; he became more daring. 

“T have to implore your highness for a special grace,” 
said he in a suppressed voice. 

“Speak on,” said she, feeling at that moment an inex- 
plicable emotion which made her heart beat high, and ban- 
ished the blood from her cheeks. 

“T have dared to preserve one of the roses which you 
threw into the garden. It was a mad theft, I know it, but 
I was under the power of enchantment; I could not resist, 
and would at that moment have paid for the little blossom 
with my heart’s blood. Oh, if your royal highness could 
have seen, when I entered my room and closed the door, 
with what rapture I regarded my treasure, how I knelt be- 
fore it and worshipped it, scarcely daring to touch it with 
my lips! it recalled to me a lovely fairy tale of my child- 
hood.” 

“How could a simple rose recall a fairy tale?” said 
Amelia. 

“Tt is a legend of a poor shepherd-boy, who, lonely and 
neglected, had fallen asleep under a tree near the highway. 
Before sleeping, he had prayed to God to have pity upon 
him; to fill this great and painful void in his heart, or to 
send His Minister, Death, to his release. While sleeping he 
had a beautiful dream. He thought he saw the heavens open, 





—_-- 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. J] 


and an angel of enchanting grace and beauty floated toward 
him. Her eyes glowed like two of the brightest stars. 
‘You shall be no longer lonely,” she whispered; ‘my image 
shall abide ever in your heart, and strengthen and stimulate 
you to all things good and beautiful.’ While saying this, 
she laid a wondrous rose upon his eyes, and, floating off, 


- goon disappeared in the clouds. The poor shepherd-boy 


awoke, and was enraptured with what he supposed had been 
a wild dream. But lo! there was the rose, and with un- 
speakable joy he pressed it to his heart. He thanked God 
for this sweet flower, which proved to him that the angel 
was no dream, but a reality. The rose, the visible emblem 
of his good angel, was the joy and comfort of his life, and 
he wore it ever in his heart.—I thought of this fairy tale, 
princess, as I looked upon my rose, but I felt immediately 
that I dared not call it mine without the consent of your 
highness. Decide, therefore; dare I keep this rose?” 

Amelia did not reply. She had listened with a strange 
embarrassment to this impassioned tale. The world—all, 
was forgotten; she was no longer a princess, she was but a 
simple young girl, who listened for the first time to words 
of burning passion, and whose heart trembled with sweet 
alarm. 

“Princess, dare I guard this rose?” repeated Frederick, 
with a trembling voice. 

She looked at him; their eyes met; the young maiden 
trembled, but the man stood erect. He felt strong, proud, 
and a conqueror; his glance was like the eagle’s, when about 
to seize a lamb and bear it to his eyrie. 

“He goes too far; truly, he goes too far,” whispered 
Péllnitz, who had seen all, and from their glances and 
movements had almost read their thoughts and words. “I 
must bring this téte-d-téte to an end, and I shall do so in 
a profitable manner.” 

“Dare I keep this rose?” said Frederick von Trenck, a 
third time. 

Amelia turned her head aside and whispered, “ Keep it.” 

Trenck would have answered, but in that moment a 
hand was laid upon his arm, and Péllnitz stood near him. 

“ Prudence,” whispered he, anxiously. “Do you not see 


79 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


that you are observed? You will make of your insane and 
treasonable passion a fairy tale for the whole court.” 

Amelia uttered a slight ery, and looked anxiously at 
Péllnitz. She had heard his whispered words, and the sly 
baron intended that she should. 

“Will your royal highness dismiss this madman,” whis- 
pered he, “ and allow me to awake his sleeping reason?” 

“Go, Herr von Trenck,” said she lightly. 

Péllnitz took the arm of the young officer and led him off, 
saying to himself, with a chuckle: “ That was a good stroke, 
and I feel that I shall succeed; I have betrayed his passion 
to her, and forced myself into their confidence. I shall soon 
be employed as Love’s messenger, and that is ever with 
princesses a profitable service. Ah, King Frederick, King 
Frederick, you have made it impossible for me to borrow 
money! Well, I shall not find that necessary; my hands 
shall be filled from the royal treasures. When the casket 
of the princess is empty, the king must of course replenish 
it.” And the baron laughed too loudly for a master of 
ceremonies. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


SIGNORA BARBARINA. 


THE princess regarded their retreating figures with 
dreamy eyes. Then, yielding to an unconquerable desire to 
be alone, to give herself up to undisturbed thought, she was 
about to withdraw; but the Princess Ulrica, who thought it 
necessary that the Swedish ambassador should have another 
opportunity of observing the proud and sullen temper of her 
sister, called her back. 

“Remain a moment longer, Amelia,” said the princess. 
“You shall decide between Count Tessin and myself. Will 
you accept my sister as umpire, count?” 

“Without doubt,” said the count. “I should be greatly 
honored if the princess will be so gracious. Perhaps I may 
be more fortunate on this occasion.” 


oe ee 








ee 


ma 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 73 


“Tt appears to me,” said Amelia, rudely interrupting 
him, “that ‘fortunate’ and ‘unfortunate’ are not terms 
which can be properly used in any connection between a 
princess of Prussia and yourself.” Amelia then turned to- 
ward her sister and gave her a glance which plainly said: 
Well, do I not play my réle in masterly style? Have I not 
hastened to follow your counsels? “Speak, sister; name 
the point which Count Tessin dares to contest with you.” 

“ Oh, the count is a man and a scholar, and has full right 
to differ,” said Ulrica, graciously. “The question was a 
comparison of Queen Elizabeth of England and Queen 
Christina of Sweden. I maintain that Christina had a 
stronger and more powerful intellect; that she knew better 
how to conquer her spirit, to master her womanly weak- 
nesses; that she was more thoroughly cultivated, and studied 
philosophy and science, not as Elizabeth, for glitter and 
show, but because she had an inward thirst for knowledge. 
The count asserts that Elizabeth was better versed in state- 
craft, and a more amiable woman. Now, Amelia, to which 
of these two queens do you give the preference?” 

“Oh, without doubt, to Queen Christina of Sweden. 
This great woman was wise enough not to regard the crown 
of Sweden as a rare and precious gem; she chose a simple 
life of obscurity and poverty in beautiful Italy, rather than 
a throne in cold and unfruitful Sweden. This act alone 
establishes her superiority. Yes, sister, you are right. 
Christina was the greater woman, even because she scorned 
to be Queen of Sweden.” 

So saying, Amelia bowed slightingly, and, turning aside, 
she summoned Madame von Kleist, and commenced a merry 
chat with her. Count Tessin regarded her with a dark and 
scornful glance, and pressed his lips tightly together, as if 
to restrain his anger. 

“T beseech you, count,” said Ulrica, in a low, soft voice, 
“not to be offended at the thoughtless words of my dear 
little sister. It is true, she is a little rude and resentful to- 
day; but you will see—to-morrow, perhaps, will be one of 
her glorious sunny days, and you will find her irresistibly 
charming. Her moods are changeable, and for that reason 
we call her our little ‘ April fée.’” 


74 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ Ah, the princess is, then, as uncertain as April?” said 
the count, with a frosty smile. 

“More uncertain than April,” said Ulrica, sweetly. 
“But what would you, sir? we all, brothers and sisters, are 
responsible for that. You must know that she is our fa- 
vorite, and is always indulged. I counsel you not to find 
fault with our little.sister, Count Tessin; that would be to 
bring an accusation against us all. You have suffered to- 
day from a shower of her April moods; to-morrow you may 
rejoice in the sunshine of her favor.” 

“T shall, however, be doubtful and anxious,” said the 
ambassador, coolly; “the April sun is sometimes accom- 
panied by rain and storm, and these sudden changes bring 
sickness and death.” . 

“ Allow me to make one request,” said Ulrica. “ Let not 
the king guess that you have suffered from these April 
changes.” 

“ Certainly not; and if your royal highness will gracious- 
ly allow me to bask in the sunshine of your presence, I shall 
soon recover from the chilling effect of these April showers.” 

“Well, I think we have played our parts admirably,” said 
Ulrica to herself, as she found time, during the course of the 
evening, to meditate upon the events of the day. ‘“ Amelia 
will accomplish her purpose, and will not be Queen of 
Sweden. She would have it so, and I shall not reproach 
myself.” 

Princess Ulrica leaned comfortably back in her arm- 
chair, and gave her attention to a play of Voltaire, which 
was now being performed. This representation took place 
in the small theatre in the royal palace. There was no pub- 
lic theatre in Berlin, and the king justly pronounced the 
large opera-house unsuited to declamation. Frederick gen- 
erally gave his undivided attention to the play, but this 
evening he was restless and impatient, and he accorded less 
applause to this piquant and witty drama of his favorite 
author than he was wont to do. The king was impatient, 
because the king was waiting. He had so far restrained all 
outward expression of his impatient curiosity; the French 
play had not commenced one moment earlier than usual. 
Frederick had, according to custom, gone behind the scenes, 








FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. %5 


to say a few friendly and encouraging words to the per- 
formers, to call their attention to his favorite passages, and 
exhort them to be truly eloquent in their recitations. And 
now the king waited; he felt feverishly impatient to see and 
judge for himself this capricious beauty, this world-re- 
nowned artiste, this Signora Barbarina, whose rare loveli- 
ness and grace enchanted and bewildered all who looked 
upon her. 

At length the curtain fell. In a few moments he would 
see the Barbarina dance her celebrated solo. A breathless 
stillness reigned throughout the assembly; every eye was 
fixed upon the curtain. The bell sounded, the curtain flew 
up, and a lovely landscape met the eye: in the background 
a village church, rose-bushes in rich bloom, and shady trees 
on every side; the declining sun gilded the summit of the 
mountain, against the base of which the little village nestled. 
The distant sound of the evening bell was calling the simple 
cottagers to “ Ave Maria.” It was an enchanting picture of 
innocence and peace; in striking contrast to this courtly 
assemblage, glittering with gems and starry orders—a start- 
ling opposite to that sweet, pure idyl. And now this select 
circle seemed agitated as by an electric shock. There, upon 
the stage, floated the Signora Barbarina. 

The king raised himself involuntarily a little higher in 
his arm-chair, in order to examine the signora more closely; 
he leaned back, however, ashamed of his impatience, and a 
light cloud was on his brow; he felt himself oppressed and 
overcome by this magical beauty. He who had looked death 
in the face without emotion, who had seen the deadly can- 
non-balls falling thickly around him without a trembling 
of the eyelids, now felt a presentiment of danger, and 
shrank from it. 

Barbarina was indeed lovely, irresistibly lovely, in her 
ravishing costume of a shepherdess; her dress was of crim- 
son satin, her black velvet bodice was fastened over her vo- 
luptuous bosom by rich golden cords, finished off by tassels 
glittering with diamonds. A wreath of crimson roses 
adorned her hair, which fell in graceful ringlets about her 
wondrous brow, and formed a rich frame around her pure, 
oval face. The dark incarnate of her full, ripe lip con- 


"6 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


trasted richly with the light, rosy blush of her fair, smooth 
cheek. Barbarina’s smile was a promise of love and bliss; 
and, when those great fiery eyes looked at you earnestly, 
there was such an intense glow, such a depth of power and 
passion in their rays, you could not but feel that there was 
danger in her love as in her scorn. 

To-day, she would neither threaten nor inspire; she was 
only a smiling, joyous, simple peasant-girl, who had re- 
turned wild with joy to her native village, and whose rapture 
found expression in the gay and graceful mazes of the dance. 
She floated here and there, like a wood-nymph, smiling, 
happy, careless, wonderful to look upon in her loveliness 
and beauty, but more wonderful still in her art. Simplicity 
and grace marked every movement; there seemed no difii- 
culties in her path—to dance was her happiness. 

The dance was at an end. Barbarina, breathless, glow- 
ing, smiling, bowed low. Then all was still; no hand was 
moved, no applause greeted her. Her great burning eyes 
wandered threateningly and questioningly over the sa- 
loon; then, raising her lovely head proudly, she stepped 
back. 

The curtain fell, and now all eyes were fixed upon the 
king, in whose face the courtiers expected to read the im- 
pression which the signora had made upon him; but the 
countenance of the king told nothing; he was quiet and 
thoughtful, his brow was stern, and his lips compressed. 
The courtiers concluded that he was disappointed, and be- 
gan at once to find fault, and make disparaging remarks. 
Frederick did not regard them. At this moment he was not 
a king, he was only a man—a man who, in silent rapture, 
had gazed upon this wondrous combination of grace and 
beauty. The king was a hero, but he trembled before this 
woman, and a sort of terror laid hold upon him. 

The curtain rose, and the second act of the drama be- 
gan; no one looked at the stage; after this living, breathing, 
impersonation of a simple story, a spoken drama seemed 
oppressive. Every one rejoiced when the second act was at 
an end. The curtain would soon rise for Barbarina. 

But this did not occur; there was a long delay; there 

Was eager expectation; the curtain did not rise; the bell 


| 


———<—-- 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 77 


did not ring. At last, Baron Swartz crossed the stage and 
drew near to the king. 

“Sire,” said he, “the Signora Barbarina declares she 
will not dance again; she is exhausted by grief and anxiety, 
and fatigued by her journey.” 

“Go and say to her that I command her to dance,” said 
Frederick, who felt himself once more a king, and rejoiced 
in his power over this enchantress, who almost held him in 
her toils. 

Baron Swartz hastened behind the scenes, but soon re- 
turned, somewhat cast down. 

“Sire, the signora affirms that she will not dance, and 
that the king has no power to compel her. She dances to 
please herself.” 

“ Ah! that is a menace,” said the king, threateningly; 
and without further speech he stepped upon the stage, fol- 
lowed by Baron Swartz. “ Where is this person!” said the 


“She is in her own room, your majesty; shall I call 
her?” 

“No, I will go to her. Show me the way.” 

The baron stepped forward, and Frederick endeavored 
to collect himself and assume a cool and grave bearing. 

“ Sire, this is the chamber of the Signora Barbarina.” 

“Open the door.” But before the baron had time to 
obey the command, the impatient hand of the king had 
opened the door, and he had entered the room. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE KING AND BARBARINA, 


BARBARINA was resting, half reclining, and wholly ab- 
stracted, upon a small crimson divan; her rounded arms 
were crossed over her breast. She fixed her blazing, glow- 
ing eyes upon the intruders, and seemed petrified, in her 
stubborn immobility, her determined silence. She had the 


78 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


glance of a panther who has prepared herself for death, or 
to slay her enemy. 

The king stood a moment quiet and waiting, but Barba- 
rina did not move. Baron Swartz, alarmed by her contemptu- 
ous and disrespectful bearing, drew near, in order to say 
that the king had vouchsafed to visit her, but Frederick 
motioned him to withdraw; and, in order that Barbarina 
might not understand him, he told him in German to leave 
the room and await him in the corridor. 

“T do not wish the signora to know that I am the king,” 
said he. As the baron withdrew, Frederick said to him, 
“ Leave the door open.” 

Barbarina was motionless, only her large black eyes 
wandered questioningly from one to the other; she sought 
to read the meaning of their words, not one of which she 
understood; but her features expressed no anxiety, no dis- 
quiet; she did not look like a culprit or a rebel; she had 
rather the air of a stern queen, withholding her royal fa- 
vor. The king drew near her. Her eyes were fixed upon 
him with inexpressible, earnest calm; and this cool indif- 
ference, so rarely seen by a king, embarrassed Frederick, 
and at the same time intoxicated him. 

“You are, then, determined not to dance again?” said 
the king. 

“Fully determined,” said she, in a rich and sonorous 
voice. 

“ Beware! beware!” said he; but he could not assume 
that threatening tone which he wished. “The king may 
perhaps compel you.” 

“Compel me! me, the Barbarina!” said she, with a 
mocking laugh, and disclosing two rows of pearly teeth. 
“ And how can the king compel me to dance?” 

“You must be convinced that he has some power over 
you, since he brought you here against your will.” 

“Yes, that is true,” said she, raising herself up proudly; 
“he brought me here by force; he has acted like a barbarian, 
a cold-blooded tyrant! ” 

“ Signora,” said Frederick, menacingly, “one does not 
speak so of kings.” 

“ And why not?” she said, passionately. “ What is your 








FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 79 


king to me? _What claim has he upon my love, upon my 
consideration, or even my obedience? What has he done 
for me, that I should regard him otherwise than as a tyrant? 
What is he to me? I am myself a queen; yes, and believe me, 
a proud and an obstinate one! Who and what is this king, 
whom I do not know, whom I have never seen, who has for- 
gotten that I am a woman, yes, forgotten that he is a man, 
though he bears the empty title of a king? A true king is 
always and only a gallant cavalier in his conduct to women. 
Tf he fails in this, he is contemptible and despised.” - 

“How! you despise the king?” said Frederick, who 
really enjoyed this unaccustomed scene. 

“Yes, I despise him! yes, I hate him!” cried the Bar- 
barina, with a wild and stormy outbreak of her southern 
nature. “I no longer pray to God for my own happiness; 
that this cruel king has destroyed. I pray to God for re- 
venge; yes, for vengeance upon this man, who has no heart, 
and who tramples the hearts of others under his feet. And 
‘God will help me. I shall revenge myself on this man. I 
have sworn it—I will keep my word! Go, sir, and tell this 
to your king; tell him to beware of Barbarina. Greater, 
bolder, more magnanimous than he, I warn him! Cunning- 
ly, slyly, unwarned, by night I was fallen upon by spies, and 
dragged like a culprit to Berlin.” 

The king had no wish to put an end to this piquant scene; 
he was only accustomed to the voice of praise and of ap- 
plause; it was a novelty, and therefore agreeable to be so 
energetically railed at and abused. 

“Do you not fear that the king will be angry when I re- 
peat your words?” 

“Fear! What more can your king do, that I should fear 
him? Yes, he isaking; but amnotIaqueen? This paltry 
kingdom is but a small portion of the world, which is mine, 
wholly mine; it belongs to me, as it belongs to the eagle 
who spreads her proud wings and looks down upon her vast 
domains; he has millions in his treasury, but they are 
pressed from the pockets of his poor subjects; he requires 
many agents to collect his gold, and his people give it grudg- 
ingly, but my subjects bring their tribute joyfully and lay it 
at my feet with loving words. Look you! look at these two 


80 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


little feet: they are my assessors; they collect the taxes 
from my people, and all the dwellers in Europe are mine. 
These are my agents, they bring me in millions of gold; 
they are also my avengers, by their aid I shall revenge my- 
self on your barbaric king.” 

She leaned back upon the pillows and breathed audibly, 
exhausted by her wild passion. The king looked at her with 
wonder. She was to him a rare and precious work of art, 
something’ to be studied and worshipped. Her alluring 
beauty, her impetuous, uncontrolled passions, her bold sin- 
cerity, were all attractions, and he felt himself under the 
spell of her enchantments. Let her rail and swear to be re- 
venged on the barbarian. The king heard her not; a simple 
gentleman stood before her; a man who felt that Barbarina 
was right, and who confessed to himself that the king had 
forgotten, in her rude seizure, that this Barbarina was a 
woman—forgotten that he, in all his relations with women, 
should be only a cavalier. 

“Yes, yes,” said Barbarina, and an expression of triumph 
was painted on her lips—“ yes, my little feet will be my 
avengers. The king will never more see them dance—never 
more; they have cost him thousands of gold; because of 
them he is at variance with the noble Republic of Venice. 
Well, he has seen them for the last time. Ah! it is a light 
thing to subdue a province, but impossible to conquer a 
woman and anartiste who is resolved not to surrender.” 

Frederick smiled at these proud words. 

“So you will not dance before the king, and yet you have 
danced for him this evening?” 

“Yes,” said she, raising her head proudly, “I have 
proved to him that I am anartiste; only when he feels that, 
will it pain him never again to see me exercise my art.” 

“That is, indeed, refined reasoning,” said the king. 
“You danced, then, in order to make the king thirst anew 
for this intoxicating draught, and then deny him? Truly, 
one must be an Italian to conceive this plan.” 

“T am an Italian, and woe to me that I am!” A storm 
of tears gushed from her eyes, but in a moment, as if scorn- 
ing her own weakness, she drove them back into her heart. 
“Poor Italian,” she said, in a soft, low tone—“ poor child of 


| 
l 
: 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 8] 


the South, what are you doing in this cold North, amongst 
these frosty hearts whose icy smiles petrify art and beauty? 
Ah! to think that even the Barbarina could not melt the ice- 
rind from their pitiful souls; to think that she displayed 
before them all the power and grace of her art, and they 
looked on with motionless hands and silent lips! Ah! this 
humiliation woul. have killed me in Italy, because I love my 
people, and they understand and appreciate all that is rare 
and beautiful. My heart burns with scorn and contempt for 
these torpid Berliners.” 

“T understand you now,” said the king; “ you heard no 
bravos, you were not applauded; therefore you are angry?” 

“T laugh at it!” said she, looking fiercely at the king. 
“Do you not know, sir, that this applause, these bravos, 
are to the artiste as the sound of a trumpet to the gallant 
war-horse, they invigorate and inspire, and swell the heart 
with strength and courage? When the artiste stands upon 
the stage, the saloon before him is his heaven, and there his 
judges sit, to bestow eternal happiness or eternal condemna- 
tion; to crown him with immortal fame, or cover him with 
shame and confusion. Now, sir, that I have explained to 
you that the stage saloon is our heaven, and the spectators 
are our judges, you will understand that these bravos are to 
us as the music of the spheres.” 

“Yes, I comprehend,” said the king, smiling; “but you 
must be indulgent; in this theatre etiquette forbids ap- 
plause. You have danced to-day before an invited audi- 
ence, who pay nothing, and therefore have not the right 
to blame or praise; no one dare applaud—no one but the 
king.” 

“Ha! and this rude man did not applaud!” cried she, 
showing her small teeth, and raising her hand threateningly 
toward heaven. 

“Perhaps he was motionless and drunk from rapture,” 
said the king, bowing gracefully; “when he sees you dance 
again, he will have more control over himself, and will, per- 
haps, applaud you heartily.” 

“Perhaps?” cried she. “I shall not expose myself to 
this ‘perhaps.’ I will dance no more. My foot is sore, and 
your king cannot force me to dance.” 


89 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCT; OR, 


“No, he cannot force you, but you will do it willingly; 
you will dance for him again this evening, of your own free 
will.” . 

Barbarina answered by one burst of wild, demoniae 
laughter, expressive of her scorn and her resentment. 

“You will dance again this evening,” repeated Frederick,. 
and his keen eye gazed steadily into that of Barbarina,. who, 
though weeping bitterly, shook her lovely head, and gave 
him back bravely glance for glance. “You will dance, 
Barbarina, because, if you do not, you are lost. I do not. 
mean by this that you are lost because the king will punish 
you for your obstinacy. The king is no Bluebeard; he 
neither murders women nor confines them in underground 
prisons; he has no torture chambers ready for you; for the 
King of Prussia, whom you hate so fiercely, has abolished. 
the torture throughout his kingdom—the torture, which still 
flourishes luxuriantly by the side of oranges and myrtles 
in your beautiful Italy. No, signora, the king will not pun- 
ish you if you persist in your obstinacy; he will only send 
you away, that is all.” 

“ And that is my only wish, all that I ask of Fate.” 

“You do not know yourself. You, who are an artiste, 
who are a lovely woman, who are ambitious, and look upon 
fame as worth striving for, you would not lose your power, 
trample under foot your ambition, see your rare beauty 
slighted, and your enchanting grace despised ? ” 

“TI cannot see why all these terrible things will come to. 
pass if I refuse to dance again before your king?” 

“T will explain to you, signora—listen. The king (how- 
ever contemptuously you may think and speak of him) is 
still a man, upon whom the eyes of all Europe are turned 
—that is to say,” he added, with a gay smile and a grace-- 
ful bow, “ when his bold eye is not exactly fixed upon them, 
signora. The voice of this king has some weight in your 
world, though, as yet, he has only stolen provinces and 
women. It is well known that the king has so irresistible. 
a desire to see you and to admire you, that he forgot his: 
knightly gallantry, or set it aside, and, relying only upon 
his right, he exacted the fulfilment of the contract signed 
by your own lovely hand. That was, perhaps, not worthy of 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 983 


a cavalier, but it was not unjust. You were forced to obey. 
You came to Berlin unwillingly, that I confess; but you 
have this evening danced before the king of your own free 
will. This, from your stand-point, was a great mistake. 
You can no longer say, ‘I will not dance before the king, 
because I wish to reyenge myself.” You have already 
danced, and no matter with what refinement of reason you 
may explain this false step, no one will believe you if the 
king raises his voice against you; and he will do this, be- 
lieve me. He will say: ‘I brought this Barbarina to Berlin. 
I wished to see if the world had gone mad or become child- 
ish, or if Barbarina really deserved the enthusiasm and 
adoration which followed her steps. Well, I have seen her 
dance, and I find the world is mad in folly. I give them 
back their goddess—she does not suit me. She is a wooden 
image in my eyes. I wished to capture Terpsichore herself, 
and lo, I found I had stolen her chambermaid! I have seen 
your goddess dance once, and I am weary of her pirouettes 
and minauderies. Lo, there, thou hast that is thine.’ ” 

“Sir, sir!” cried Barbarina menacingly, and springing 
up with flaming eyes and panting breath. 

“ That is what the king will say,” said Frederick quietly. 
“You know that the voice of the king is full and strong; 
it will resound throughout Europe. No one will believe 
that you refused to dance. It will be said that you did not 
please the king; this will be proved by the fact that he did 
not applaud, did not utter a single bravo. In a word, it will 
be said you have made a fiasco.” 

Barbarina sprang from her seat and laid her hand upon 
the arm of the king with indescribable, inimitable grace and 
passion. 

“Lead me upon the stage—I will dance now. Ah, this 
king shall not conquer me, shall not cast me down. No, no! 
I will compel him to applaud; he shall confess that I am in- 
deed an artiste. Tell the director to prepare—I will come 
immediately upon the stage.” 

_ Barbarina was right when she compared the artiste to a 
-war-horse. At this moment she did indeed resemble one: 
she seemed to hear the sound of the trumpet calling to battle 
and to — Her cheeks glowed, her nostrils dilated, a 


84 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


quick and violent breathing agitated her breast, and a nerv- 
ous and convulsive trembling for action was seen in every © 
movement. The king observed and comprehended her. He 
understood her tremor and her haste; he appreciated this 
soul-thirsting for fame, this fervor of ambition, excited by 
the possibility of failure; her boldness enraptured him. 
The sincerity and power with which she expressed her emo- 
tions, commanded his respect; and while the king paid this 
tribute to her intellectual qualities, the man at the same 
time confessed to himself that her personal attractions 
merited the worship she received. She was beautiful, en- 
dowed with the alluring, gentle, soft, luxurious, and at the 
same time modest beauty of the Venus Anadyomene, the 
goddess rising from the sea. | 

“Come,” said Frederick, “give me your hand. I will 
conduct you, and I promise you that this time the king will 
applaud.” 

Barbarina did not reply. In the fire of her impatience, 
she pressed the king onward toward the door. Suddenly 
she paused, and giving him an enchanting smile, she said, 
“T am, without doubt, much indebted to you; you have 
warned me of a danger, and in fact guarded me from an 
abyss. Truly I think this was not done for my sake, but’ 
because your king had commanded that I should dance. 
Your reasons were well grounded, and I thank you sincerely. 
I pray you, sir, give me your name, that I may guard it in 
my memory as the only pleasant association with Berlin.” 

“From this day, signora, you will confess that you owe 
me a small service. You have told me it was a light task 
to win provinces, but to capture and subdue a woman was 
impossible. I hope now I shall be a hero in your eyes: I 
have not only conquered provinces, I have captured a woman 
and subdued her.” 

Barbarina was neither astonished nor alarmed at these 
words. She had seen so many kings and princes at her feet 
to be blinded by the glitter of royalty. She let go the arm 
of the king, and said calmly and coolly: “Sire, I do not ask 
for pardon or grace. The possessor of a crown must wear 
it, if he demands that it should be acknowledged and re- 
spected, and the pomp and glare of royalty is, it seems, easily, 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 8§ 


veiled. Besides, I would not have acted otherwise, had I 
known who it it was that dared intrude upon me.” 

“T am convinced of that,” said Frederick, smiling. 
“You are a queen who has but small consideration for the 
little King of Prussia, because he requires so many agents 
to impress the gold from the pockets of his unwilling sub- 
jects. You are right—my agents cost me much money, and 
bring small tribute, while yours cost nothing and yield a 
rich harvest. Come, signora, your assessors must enter 
upon their duties.” 

He nodded to Baron Swartz, who stood in the corridor, 
and said in German, “ The signora will dance; she must be 
received with respect and treated with consideration.” He 
gave a light greeting to Barbarina and returned to the 
saloon, where he found the last act of the drama just con- 
cluded. 

Every eye was fixed upon the king as he entered. He 
had left the room in anger, and the courtiers almost trem- 
bled at the thought of his fierce displeasure; but Frederick’s 
brow was clear, and an expression of peace and quiet was 
written on his features. He took his place between the two 
queens, muttered a few words of explanation to his mother, 
_ and bowed smilingly to his wife. Poor queen! poor Eliza- 
beth Christine! she had the sharp eye of a loving and jeal- 
ous woman, and she saw in the king’s face what no one, not 
even Frederick himself, knew. While every eye was turned 
upon the stage; while all with breathless rapture gazed upon 
the marvellous beauty and grace of Barbarina, the queen 
alone fixed a stolen and trembling glance upon the counte- 
nance of her husband. She saw not that Barbarina, in- 
spired by ambition and passion, was more lovely, more en- 
chanting than before. Her eyes were fixed upon the face 
of her husband, now luminous with admiration and delight; 
she saw his soft smile, and the iron entered her soul. 

The dance was at an end. Barbarina came forward and 
bowed low; and now something happened so unheard of, so 
contrary to court etiquette, that the master of ceremonies 
was filled with surprise and disapprobation. The king ap- 
plauded, not as gracious kings applaud generally, by laying 
his hands lightly together, but like a wild enthusiast who 


86 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


wishes to confess to the world that he is bewildered, enrap- 
tured. He then rose from his chair, and turning to the prin- 
cesses and generals behind him, he said, “ Gentlemen, why do 
you not applaud?” and as if these magical words had released 
the hands from bondage and given life to the wild rapture 
of applause which had before but trembled on the lip, the 
wide hall rang with the plaudits and enthusiastic bravos of 
the spectators. Barbarina bowed low and still lower, an 
expression of happy triumph playing upon her glowing face. 

“T have never seen a more beautiful woman,” said the 
king, as he sank back, seemingly exhausted, in his chair. 

Queen Elizabeth pressed her lips together, to suppress a 
cry of pain. She had heard the king’s words; for her they 
had a deeper meaning. “ He will love her, I know it, I feel 
it!” she said to herself as she returned after this eventful 
evening to Schénhausen. “Oh, why has God laid upon me 
this new trial, this new humiliation? Until now, no one 
thought the less of me because I was not loved by the king. 
The world said, ‘The king loves no woman, he has no heart 
for love.’ From this day I shall be despised and pitied. 
The king has found a heart. He knows now that he has not 
‘outlived his youth; he feels that he is young—that he is 
jyoung in heart, young in love! Oh, my God! and I too am 
young, and love; and I must shroud my heart in resignation 
and gloom.” © 

While the queen was pouring out her complaints and 
prayers to God, the Swedish ambassador was confiding his 
wrath to his king. He wrote to his sovereign, and repeated 
to him the angry and abusive words of the little Princess 
Amelia, who was known at the court as the little April Fée. 
She was more changeable than April, and more stormy and 
imperious than Frederick himself. He painted skilfully 
the gentle and attractive bearing of the Princess Ulrica. 
and asked for permission to demand the hand of this gra- 
cious and noble princess for Adolph Frederick. After the 
ambassador had written his dispatches, and sent them by a 
courier to the Swedish ship lying in the sound, he said to 
himself, with a triumphant smile: “ Ah, my little Princess 
Amelia, this is a royal punishment for royal impertinence. 
You were pleased to treat me with contempt, but you did 











FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 87] 


not know that I could avenge myself by depriving you of a 
kingdom. Ah, if you had guessed my mission, how smiling- 
ly you would have greeted the Count Tessin!” 

The gentlemen diplomatists are sometimes outwitted. 


CHAPTER X. 


ECKHOF. 


THE reader has learned, from the foregoing chapters, 
what a splendid réle the French theatre and ballet were now 
playing at the court of Berlin. A superb house had been 
built for the Italian opera and the ballet, a stage had been 
prepared in the king’s palace for the French comedies, and 
every representation was honored by the presence of the 
king, the royal family, and the court circle. The most cele- 
brated singers of Italy, the most graceful Parisian dancers 
were now to be heard and seen in Berlin. These things 
assumed such vast importance, that the king himself ap- 
peared as a critic in the daily journals, and his articles were 
published in the foreign papers. While the king favored the 
strange actors with his presence and his grace, the German 
theatre, like a despised step-child, was given over to misery 
and contempt. Compelled to seek an asylum in low dark 
saloons, its actors had to be thankful for even the permission 
to exist, and to plead with Apollo and the Muses for aid 
and applause. The king and the so-called good society de- 
spised them altogether. But this step-child carried under 
her ashes and ragged garments the golden robes of her fu- 
ture greatness; her cunning step-sisters had cast her down 
into obscurity and want, but she was not extinguished; she 
could not be robbed of her future! Only a few propitious 
circumstances were necessary to enable her to shake the 
dust from her head, and bring her kingly crown to light. 

The king had given Schénemein permission to bring his 
company to Berlin; and by a happy chance, Schénemein had 
engaged the young and talented actor Eckhof for the season. 


88 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Eckhof was destined to give renown to the German theatre; 
he was justly called the first and greatest actor in Germany. 
Alas, how much of misery, how much of humiliation, how 
many choking tears, how much suffering and care, how much 
hunger and thirst were then comprised in that one word, a 
“German actor!” None but a lost or despairing man, or 
an enthusiast, would enroll himself as a German actor; only 
when he had nothing more to lose, and was willing to burn 
his ships behind him, could he enter upon that thorny path. 
Religion and art have always had their martyrs, and truly 
the German +; tors were martyrs in the time of Frederick 
the Great.. Blessings upon those who did not despair, and 
took up their cross patiently! 

The French comedy and the Italian opera flourished like 
the green bay-tree. The German actors took refuge in the 
saloon of the Council-house. The lighting up of the Royal 
Opera-house cost two hundred and seventy-seven florins 
every night. The misty light of sweltering oil lamps illu- 
minated the poor saloon of the Council-house. 

The audience of the German theatre was composed of 
burghers, philosophers, poets, bankers, and clerks—the peo- 
ple of the middle classes, who wore no white plumes in their 
hats; they were indeed allowed to enter the opera-house, but 
through a side passage, and their boxes were entirely sepa- 
rated from those of the court circle. These people of the 
middle classes seemed obscure and unimportant, but they 
were educated and intelligent; even then they were a power; 
proud and independent, they could not be bribed by flattery, 
nor blinded by glitter and pomp. They judged the king as 
they judged the beggar, the philosopher as they did the 
artist, and they judged boldly and well. 

This public voice had declared that Eckhof was a great 
tragedian, who rivalled successfully the great French actor, 
Monsieur Dennis. This public voice, though but the voice 
of the people, found entrance everywhere, even in the saloons 
of the nobles and cabinets of princes. Berlin resounded 
with the name of Eckhof, who dared to rival the French 
actor, and with the name of Schénemein, who dared, every 
time a drama of Corneille or Racine, of Moliére or Voltaire, 
was given in the palace theatre, to represent the same in the 


—~, ——— eo 


and 








= 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 89 


Council-house on the following evening. This was a good 
idea. Those who had been so fortunate as to witness the 
performance at the palace, wished to compare the glittering 
spectacle with the poor caricature, as they were pleased 
to call it, in the Council-house. Those whose obscure posi- 
tion prevented them from entering the French theatre, 
wished at least to see the play which had enraptured the 
king and court; they must be content with a copy, some- 
what like the hungry beggar who stands before the kitchen 
door, and refreshes himself by smelling the roast beef he 
cannot hope to taste. But there was still a third class who 
visited the German theatre, not in derision, not from curi- 
osity, not from a desire to imitate the nobles in their amuse- 
ments, but with the seemingly Utopian hope of building up 
the German drama. Amongst these were the scholars, who 
pronounced the dramas of Gottsched far superior to those 
of Corneille and Racine; there were the German patriots, 
who would not grant a smile to the best representation of 
“Le Malade Imaginaire,” but declared “The Hypochon- 
driac,” by Guistorp, the wittiest drama in the world. In 
short, this large class of men ranged themselves in bold op- 
position to the favoritism shown to Frenchmen by Frederick 
the Great. These were the elements which composed the 
audience in the Council-house. 

One afternoon, just before the opening of the theatre, 
two young men were walking arm-in-arm in the castle court; 
with one of them we are already acquainted, Joseph Freders- 
dorf, the merry student of Halle, the brother of the private 
secretary—he who had been commissioned to seek the black 
ram, for the propitiation of the devil. In obedience to the 
command of the secretary, he, with ten other members of 
this unholy alliance, had been searching in every quarter for 
this sacrifice. Joseph Fredersdorf, indebted to fortune or 
his own adroitness, was the first to return from his wander- 
ings, and he brought with him a black ram, on whose glossy 
coat the sharpest eye could not detect one white hair. 

Fredersdorf, and Baron Kleist, the husband of the lovely 
Louise von Schwerin, were truly happy, and paid willingly 
some hundred thalers for this coveted object. Indeed, they 
considered this a very small interest to pay for the large 


90 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


capital which they would soon realize. They were the 
principal leaders in the secret conspiracy for gold-making, 
and many other most distinguished nobles, generals, and 
officers belonged to the society. Fredersdorf was resolved 
to fathom this mystery; he wished to buy himself free from 
his service to the king, and wed the woman he had long so 
passionately loved. Kleist was riotous and a spendthrift; 
he felt that gold alone would enable him to buy smiles and 
rapture from this worn-out and wearisome world. Kleist 
and his beautiful wife required money in large measure; 
she had been a faithful companion and aid—had stood by 
honestly and assisted in the waste of her own property; and 
now they were compelled to confine themselves to the small 
income of captain of the king’s guard. 

Joseph laughed, chatted, and jested with his young com- 
panion, who walked by his side with modest and downcast 
eyes. Joseph sometimes put his hand merrily under the 
dimpled chins of the rosy servant-girls who passed them from 
time to time, or peeped rather impertinently under the silk 
hoods of the burgher maidens; his companion blushed and 
took no part in these bold pastimes. 

“ Truly,” said Joseph, “if I did not have in my pocket a 
letter from my former room-mate at Halle, introducing you 
as a manly, brave boy, and a future light in the world of 
science, I should suspect you were a disguiscd maiden; you 
blush like a girl, and are as timid as a lamb which has never 
left its mother’s side.” 

“T am a villager, a poor provincial,” said the youth, in a 
somewhat maidenly voice. “The manners of your great 
city embarrass me. I admire but cannot imitate them. I 
have been always a recluse, a dusty book-worm.” 

“A learned monster!” cried Joseph, mockingly, “ who 
knows and understands every thing except the art of enjoy- 
ing life. I acknowledge that you are greatly mysuperior, but 
I can instruct you in that science. You have been so strongly 
commended to me that I will at once commence to unfold to 
you the real, satisfying duties and pleasures of life.” 

“TI fear,” said the youth, “your science is beyond my 
ability. I have no organ for it. My father is a celebrated 
physician in Quedlinburg; he would be greatly distressed if 








FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 91 


I should occupy myself with any thing else than philosophy 
and the arts. I myself have so little inclination and so little 
ability for the enjoyment of mirth and pleasure, that I dare 
not exchange the world of books for the world of men. I do 
not understand their speech, and their manners are strange 
to me.” 

“But, without doubt, you have come to Berlin to learn 
something of these things?” 

“No, I have come to visit the medical college, and to 
speak with the learned and renowned Eiiler.” 

“Folly and nonsense!” said Fredersdorf, laughing; 
“keep your dry pursuits for Halle, and give your time and 
attention to that which you cannot find there, gayety and 
amusement. I promise to be your counsellor and comrade. 
Let us begin our studies at once. Do you see that little 
theatre-bill fastened to the wall? Eckhof appears as Cato 
to-night.” 

“Go to the theatre! ” said Lupinus, shrinkingly. “How! 
I go to the theatre?” 

“And why not, friend?” said Joseph. “Perhaps you 
belong to the pietists, who look upon the stage as the mother 
of blasphemy and sin, and who rail at our noble king because 
he will not close these houses?” 

“No, I do not belong to the pietists,” said the youth, with 
a sad smile, “and I try to serve God, by understanding and 
admiring His works: that is my religion.” 

“Well, it seems to me that this faith does not forbid you 
to enter the theatre. If it pleases you to study God’s mas- 
ter-work, I promise to show you this night on the stage the 
noblest exemplar. Eckhof plays this evening.” 

“Who, then, is Eckhof?” 

Joseph looked at the young man with surprise, and 
shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. 

“You have, indeed, been greatly neglected, and it was 
high time you should come to me. You do not know, then, 
that Eckhof is the first tragedian who has dared to set aside 
the old and absurd dress and manners of the stage, and in- 
troduce real, living, feeling men, of like passions with our- 
selves, and who move and speak even as we do. Now we 
must certainly enter the theatre; look there, at that great 


09 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


crowd entering the dark and lowly entrance. Let us remove 
our hats reverentially; we stand before the temple of art.” 
So saying, he drew the young man, who had no longer cour- 
age to resist, into the house. “This is Eckhof’s benefit. 
You see the great tragedian has many admirers; it seems to 
me that half of Berlin has come to bring him tribute this 
evening.” 

Lupinus sat silent and confused in the parterre, near 
Joseph. There was a row of seats slightly elevated and 
made of common plank, called Joges; one of these nearest 
the stage was adorned by a golden eagle, from which some’ 
pitiful drapery was suspended; this was called the king’s 
loge, but, I am constrained to say, it had never been visited 
by the king or any member of the royal family. The royal 
loge was indeed empty, but the great body of the house was 
fearfully crowded, and many an expression of pain was 
heard from those who were closely pressed and almost 
trampled upon. 

“It is fortunate for you that Eckhof appears as Cato to- 
night: it is his best réle. Perhaps your learned soul may 
be somewhat reconciled to such vanities when you see a 
drama of Gottsched, and a hero of the old and classic time.” 

“Yes, but will not your Eckhof make a vile caricature of 
the noble Roman?” sighed Lupinus. 

“You are a pedant, and I trust the Muses will revenge 
themselves upon you this night,” said Joseph, angrily. “I 
prophesy that you will become this evening a wild enthusi- 
ast for Eckhof: that is always the punishment for those whe 
come as despisers and doubters. If you were a girl, I 
should know that you would be passionately in love with 
Eckhof before you slept; you have taken the first step, by 
hating him.” 

Joseph said this thoughtlessly, and did not remark the 
deep impression his words made upon the stranger. His 
face flushed, and his head sank upon his breast. Joseph 
saw nothing of this. At this moment the curtain rose and 
the piece began. 

A breathless silence reigned throughout the vast crowd; 
every eye was fixed upon the stage; and now, with a stately 
step and a Roman toga falling in artistic folds from his 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 93 


shoulders, Eckhof as Cato stood before them. Every thing 
about him was antique; his noble and proud bearing, his 
firm and measured step, his slow but easy movements, even 
the form of his head and the expression of his finely-cut 
features, were eminently classic. He was the complete and 
perfect picture of an old Roman; nothing was forgotten. 
The sandals, laced with red over the powerful and well- 
formed leg; the white under-garment and leathern girdle, 
the blue toga, the cut of his hair, every thing brought be- 
fore you the noble Roman, the son of Liberty, imposing in 
his majesty and power. 

Eckhof was the first who had the courage to clothe his 
characters in the costume of the time they represented, to 
make them move and speak simply as men. Eckhof did that 
for the German stage which some years later Talma intro- 
duced on the French boards. Talma was only a copyist of 
Eckhof, but this fact was not acknowledged, because at that 
time the German stage had not won for itself the sympathy 
and consideration of other nations. 

As I have said, silence reigned, and from time to time 
the rapture of applause, which could not be altogether sup- 
pressed, was evidenced by thundering bravos. Then again 
all was still; every eye and every ear were open to the 
great actor, true to himself and true to nature; who, glow- 
ing with enthusiasm, had cast his whole soul into his part; 
who had forgotten the line separating imagination from 
reality; who had, indeed, ceased to be Eckhof, and felt and 
thought and spoke as Cato. At the close of an act, Eckhof 
was forced to come forward and show himself by the wild 
the stormy applause and loud cries of the audience. 

H Do you not find him beyond all praise?” said Freders- 
orf. 

Lupinus gazed steadily at the stage; he had only soul, 
breath, hearing, for Eckhof. His old world had passed 
away like a misty dream—a new world surrounded him. 
The olden time, the olden time to which he had consecrated 
years of study and of thought, to which he had offered up 
his sleep and all the pleasures of youth, had now become a 
reality for him. He who stood upon the stage was Cato; 
that was the Roman forum; there were the proud temples, 


94 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


and the dwelling-houses consecrated by their household 
gods. There was, then, outside of the world of books and 
letters, another world of light and gladness! What was it, 
which made his heart beat and tremble so powerfully? why 
did his blood rush so madly through his veins? A dark 
veil had fallen from his face; all around him were life, light, 
gladness, and rapture. With trembling lips and silent tears 
he said to himself: “I will live; I will be young; I will 
turn to Eckhof; he shall counsel me, and I will follow his 
advice as I would a holy gospel.—Did you not say that you 
knew Cato?” said he, suddenly awaking from his dream and 
turning to his companion. 

“Cato?” said Fredersdorf. “Do you mean the drama, 
or that wearisome old fellow himself? or Eckhof, who plays 
the part of Cato?” 

“So it is Eckhof,” said Lupinus, to himself; “he is 
called Eckhof ?” 

The play was at an end; the curtain fell for the last time, 
and now the long-suppressed enthusiasm burst forth in wild 
and deafening applause. The young stranger was silent, 
his eyes were full of tears; and yet he was perhaps the 


happiest of them all, and these rapturous tears were a loftier 


tribute to the great actor than the loudest bravos. The 
people had passed a happy evening, and common cares and 
sorrows had been forgotten; but Lupinus felt as if his heart 
had risen from the dead: he was changed from old age 
to sunny youth; he had suddenly discovered in himself 
something new, something never suspected—a glowing, lov- 
ing heart. 

“ Well, now I am resolved, wholly resolved,” said Joseph, 
as they forced their way through the crowd. “I no longer 


hesitate; I give up to you your dry learning and philosophy; 


you are welcome to your dusty books and your imposing 
cues. I will be an actor.” 

“Ha! an actor?” said Lupinus, awaking from his dream 
and trembling violently. 

“Why are you shocked at my words? I suppose you de- 
spise me because of this decision; but what do I care? I 
will be an artiste; I shall not be disturbed by the turned- 
up noses and derisive shrugs of you wise ones. I will be a 


= 


SS a 


EE ————E——————— ee 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 95 


scholar of Eckhof; so despise me, my learned Lupinus—I 
give you permission.” 

“T am not laughing,” said Lupinus. “Each one must 
walk in that path at the end of which he hopes to find his 
ideal.” 

“Yes, truly, and so I will go to Eckhof,” said Freders- 
dorf, weaving his hat triumphantly in the air. 

“Do you know where he dwells?” said the youth. 

“Certainly. We are standing now just before his door. 
See there in the third story, those two lighted windows? 
That is Eckhof’s home.” 

“ What is the name of this street?” 

“What is that to you? Has my prophecy really come 
true, and are you in love with the great actor? Do not let 
go my arm; do not turn away from me angrily. The Post 
Strasse is a long way off from where you dwell; you will 
lose yourself. Let us go together. I will risk no more un- 
seemly jests with you. Come!” 

“ He lives in the Post Strasse; he is called Eckhof,” said 
Lupinus to himself, as he took Joseph’s arm and walked 
through the dark streets. “I must see Eckhof; he shall 
decide my fate.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


A LIFE QUESTION. 


Ir was the morning after Eckhof’s benefit. The usually 
quiet dwelling of the actor resounded with the ringing of 
glasses and merry songs after the toils and fatigues of the 
evening. He wished to afford to himself and his comrades 
a little distraction; to give to the hungry sons of the Muses 
and Graces a few hours of simple enjoyment. Eckhof’s 
purse was full and he wished to divide its contents with his 
friends. 

“Drink and be merry,” said he to his gay companions. 
“Let us forget for a few hours that we are poor, despised 
German actors. We will drink, and picture to ourselves 


96 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


that we belong to the cherished and celebrated artistes of 
the French stage, on whom the Germans so willingly shower 
gold, honor, and even love. Raise your glasses, and drink 
with me to the success of German art!” 

“We will drink also to Eckhof,” cried one of the youth- 
ful company, raising his glass. “ Yes, to the father of the 
new school of German acting.” 

“You are that, Eckhof, and you are also our benefactor,” 
said another. “We thank you, that for some months we . 
have not suffered from hunger and thirst; that the good peo- 
ple of Berlin take an interest in the German stage, and 
treat us with some consideration. Let us, then, drink to our 
preserver, to the great Eckhof!” 

Every glass was raised, and their shouts rang out mer- 
rily. Eckhof alone was sad and troubled, and his great 
dreamy eyes gazed thoughtfully in the distance. His friends 
observed this, and questioned him as to the cause of his 
melancholy. | 

“T am not melancholy, though a German actor has al- 
ways good reason to be so; but I have some new plans which 
I wish to disclose to you. You greet me as your benefactor. 
Alas! how suffering, how pitiful must your condition be, if 
such a man as I am can have been useful to you! You are all 
artistes, and I say this to you from honest conviction, and 
not from contemptible flattery. You are greater in your art 
than I am, only you had not the courage to break through 
the old and absurd customs of. your predecessors. That I 
have done this, that I have dared to leave the beaten paths, 
is the only service I have rendered. I have tried to banish 
from the stage the crazy fools who strutted from side to 
side, and waved their arms from right to left; who tried 
to play the orator by uttering their pathetic phrases in weird, 
solemn sounds from the throat, or trumpeted them through 
the nose. I have placed living men upon the boards, who 
by natural speech and action lend truth and reality to the 
scenes they wish to portray. You, comrades, have assisted 
me faithfully in this effort. We are in the right path, but 
we are far from the goal. Let us go forward, then, brave- 
ly and hopefully. You think yourselves happy now in Ber- 
lin; but I say to you that we dare not remain in Berlin. 











ee ee eee 


=— = «~_, —— 


| 
! 


een 


a. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 97 


This vegetation, this bare permission to live, does not suffice, 
will not satisfy our honor. I think, with Cesar, it is better 
to be the first in a village than the second or third in a great 
city. We will leave Berlin; this cold, proud, imperious 
Berlin, which cherishes the stranger, but has no kind, cheer- 
ing word for her own countrymen. Let us turn our backs 
upon these French worshippers, and go as missionaries for 
the German drama throughout our fatherland.” 

A long pause followed this speech of Eckhof; every eye 
was thoughtful, every face was troubled. 

“You do not answer? I have not, then, convinced you?” 

“Shall we leave Berlin now,” said the hero and lover of 
the little company, “even now, when they begin to show a 
little interest, a little enthusiasm for us?” 

“ Alas, friend! the enthusiasm of the Berliners for us 
is like a fire of straw—it flashes and is extinguished; to-day, 
perhaps, they may applaud us, to-morrow we will be for- 
gotten, because a learned sparrow or hound, a French dan- 
cer, or an Italian singer, occupies their attention. There 
is neither endurance nor constancy in the Berliners. Let 
us go hence.” 

“Tt seems to me that we should make use of the good 
time while it lasts,” said another. “ At present, our daily 
bread is secured for ourselves and our families.” 

“Tf you are not willing to endure suffering and want,” 
said Eckhof, sadly, “ you will never be true artistes. Poverty 
and necessity will be for a long time to come the only faith- 
ful companions of the German actor; and he who has not 
courage to take them to his arms, would do better to be- 
come an honest tailor or a shoemaker. If the prosperity 
of your family is your first consideration, why have you 
not contented yourselves with honest daily labor, with 
being virtuous fathers of families? The pursuit of art 
does not accord with these things; if you choose the 
one, you must, for a while at least, be separated from the 
other.” 

“That will we do,” cried Fredersdorf, who had just en- 
tered the room; “I, for my part, have already set you all a 
good example. I have separated from my family, in order 
to become the husband of Art, whose sighing and ardent 


98 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


lover I have long been; and now, if the noble Eckhof does 
not reject me as a scholar, I am wholly yours.” 

Eckhof seized his hand, and said, with a soft smile, “TI 
receive you joyfully; you have the true fire of inspiration. 
From my heart I say you are welcome.” 

“T thank you for the word—and now let us be off. The 
German actor is in Germany no better than the Jew was to 
the Romans. Let us do as the Jews: we have also found 
our Moses, who will lead us to the promised land, where we 
shall find liberty, honor, and gold.” 

“Yes,” they cried, with one voice, “we will follow Eck- 
hof, we will obey our master, we will leave Berlin and seek 
a city where we shall be truly honored.” 

“T have found the city,” said Eckhof; “we will go to 
Halle. The wise men who have consecrated their lives to 
knowledge are best fitted to appreciate and treasure the true 
artiste ; we will unite with them, and our efforts will trans- 
form Halle into an Athens, where knowledge and art shall 
walk hand-in-hand in noble emulation.” 

“Off, then, for Halle!” said Fredersdorf, waving his. 
hat in the air, but his voice was less firm, and his 
eye was troubled. “ Will the director, Schénemein, con- 
sent?” 

“Schénemein has resolved to go with us, provided we 
make no claim for salaries, but will share with him both 
gains and losses.” 

“Tf the undertaking fails in Halle, we must starve, 
then,” said a trembling voice. 

Eckhof said nothing; he crossed the room to his writing- 
table, and took out a well-filled purse. “I do not say that 
we shall succeed in Halle, that is, succeed as the merchants 
and Jews do; we go as missionaries, resolved to bear hunger 
and thirst, if need be, for the cause we love and believe in. 
Look, this purse contains what remains of my profits from 
the last two months and from my benefit last night. It is 
all I have; take it and divide it amongst you. It will, at 
least, suffice to support you all for one month.” 

“Will you accept this?” said Joseph, with glowing 
cheeks. 

“ No, we will not accept it; what we do we will do freely, 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 99 


and no man shall fetter us by his generosity or magnanimity, 
not even Eckhof.” 

Eckhof was radiant with joy. “ Hear, now—lI have an- 
other proposition to make. You have refused my offer for 
yourselves, but you dare not refuse it for your children; 
take this money and divide it equally amongst your wives 
and children. With this gold you shall buy yourselves free 
for a while from your families.” 

After a long and eloquent persuasion, Eckhof’s offer was 
accepted, and divided fairly. He looked on with a kindly 
smile. 

“T now stand exactly as I did when I resolved two years 
ago to be an actor. Before that I was an honest clerk; from 
day to day I vegetated, and thanked God, when, after eight 
hours’ hard work, I could enjoy a little fresh air and the 
evening sunshine, and declaim to the fields and groves my 
favorite lines from the great authors. It is probable I 
should still have been a poor clerk and a dreamer, if my good 
genius had not stood by me and given me a powerful blow, 
which awakened me from dreaming to active life. The 
justice of the peace, whose clerk I was, commanded me to 
serve behind his carriage as a footman; this aroused my 
anger and my self-respect, and I left him, determined rather 
to die of hunger than to submit to such humiliation. My 
good genius was again at hand, and gave me courage to fol- 
low the promptings of my heart, and become an actor. He 
who will be great has the strength to achieve greatness. Let 
us go onward, then, with bold hearts.” He gave his hand to 
his friends and dismissed them, warning them to prepare 
for their journey. 

“You are determined to go to Halle?” said Fredersdorf, 
who had remained behind for the last greeting. 

“We will go to Halle; it is the seat of the Muses, and 
belongs, therefore, to us.” 

Joseph shook his head sadly. “I know Halle,” said he. 
“You cail it the seat of the Muses. I know it only as the 
seat of pedantry. You will soon know and confess this. 
There is nothing more narrow-minded, jealous, arrogant, 
and conceited than a Halle professor. He sees no merit in 
any thing but himself and a few old dusty Greeks and Ro- 

7 


100 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


mans, and even these are only great because the professor 
of Halle has shown them the honor to explain and descant 
upon them. But, you are resolved—I would go with you 
to prison and to déath; in short, I will follow you to Halle.” 

“ And now I am at last alone,” said Eckhof; “now I 
must study my new réle; now stand by me, ye gods, and in- 
spire me with your strength; give me the right’ tone, the 
right emphasis to personate this rare and wonderful Hip- 
polytus, with which I hope to win the stern professors of 
Halle!” 

Walking backward and forward, he began to declaim the 
proud and éloquent verses of Corneille; he was so thorough- 
ly absorbed that he did not hear the oft-repeated knock upon 
the door; he did not even see that the door was softly opened, 
and the young Lupinus stood blushing upon the threshold. He 
stood still and listened with rapture to the pathetic words of 
the great actor; and as Eckhof recited the glowing and in- 
nocent confession of love made by Hippolytus, a burning 
‘blush suffused the cheek of the young student, and his eyes 
were filled with tears. He overcame his emotion, and ad- 
vanced to Eckhof, who was now standing before the glass, 
studying the attitude which would best accord with this 
passionate declaration. 

“ Sir,” said he, with a low and trembling voice, “ pardon 
me for disturbing you. I was told that I should find Eckhof 
in this room, and it is most important to me to see and con- 
_ sult with this great man. I know this is his dwelling; be 
kind enough to tell me if he is within.” . 

“ This is his home, truly, but he is neither a great nor a 
wise man; only and simply Eckhof the actor.” 

“T did not ask your opinion of the distinguished man 
whom I honor, but only where I can find him.” 

“Tell me first what you want of Eckhof.” 

“ What I want of him, sir?” said the youth, thought- 
fully; “I scarcely know myself. There is a mystery in my 
soul which I cannot fathom. Eckhof has age, wisdom, and 
experience—perhaps he can enlighten me. I have faith in 
his eyes and in his silver beard, and I can say freely to him 
what I dare not say to any other.” 

Eckhof laughed merrily. “As to his white beard, you 


; 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 101 


will find that in his wardrobe; his wisdom you will find in 
the books of the authors, to whose great thoaghis, he has:’» 
only given voice; he is neither old, wr wor experieaced. ”? 
In short—I, myself, am Eckhof.” 


“You are Eckhof!” said Lupinus, Eoatniin’ : denaly: iets, 43 


and, steping back a few paces, he stared with distended eyes 
at the actor, whose noble and intellectual face, glowing with 
youthful fire, was turned toward him. 

“T am Eckhof, and I hope you will forgive me for being 
a little younger, a little browner, and somewhat less wise 
than the great Cato, in which character you no doubt saw me 
last night. I dare hope that my confession will not shake your 
confidence in me; with my whole heart I beg you will tell 
me how I can be useful to you and what mystery you wish 
to have explained.” 

“No, no! I cannot explain,” cried the youth; “ forgive 
me for having disturbed you. I have nothing more to say.” 
Confused and ashamed, Lupinus left the room. The actor 
gazed after him wonderingly, convinced that he had been 
closeted with a madman. 

With trembling heart, scarcely knowing what he thought 
or did, the student reached his room and closed the door, 
and throwing himself upon his knees, he cried out in tones 
of anguish: “Oh, my God! I have seen Eckhof: he is 
young, he is glorious in beauty, unhappy that Iam!” With 
his hands folded and still upon his knees, he gazed dreamily 
in the distance; then springing up suddenly, his eyes glow- 
ing with energy and passion, he cried: “I must go, I must 
go! I will return to Halle, to my books and my quiet room; 
it is lonely, but there I am at peace; there the world and 
the voice of Eckhof cannot enter. I must forget this wild 
awakening of my youth; my heart must sleep again and 
dream, and be buried at last under the dust of books. Un- 
happy that I am, I feel that the past is gone forever. I stand 
trembling on the borders of a newexistence. I will go at once 
—perhaps there is yet time; perhaps I may yet escape the 
wretchedness which threatens me. Oh! in my books and 
studies I may forget all. I may no longer hear this voice, 
which is forever sounding in my enraptured ears, no longer 
see those fearful but wondrous eyes.” 


102 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


With feverish haste and trembling hands he made up his 
- fittle pared: ‘A*few hours later the post-wagon rolled by 
"Eckhof? s dwelling. A young man with pale, haggard face 


‘ » rand *téartul eyes gazed up at his windows. 


‘« <&Porewell, Eckhof,”? murmured he; “I flee from you, 
but may God bless you! I go to Halle; there I shall never 
see you, my heart shall never thrill at the sound of your 
eloquent voice.” 

Lupinus leaned sadly back in the carriage, comforting 
himself with the conviction that he was safe; but fate was too 
strong for him, and the danger from which he so bravely fled, 
followed him speedily. 


CHAPTER XII. 


SUPERSTITION AND PIETY. 


THE goal was at last reached. The black ram for the 
propitiatory offering was found, and was now awaiting in 
Berlin the hour of sacrifice. 

With what eager impatience, with what throbbing pulses, 
did Fredersdorf wait for the evening! At last this sublime 
mystery would be explained, and rivers of gold would flow 
at his command. Happily, the king was not in Berlin—he 
had gone to Charlottenburg. Fredersdorf was free—lord 
of himself. 

“ And after to-morrow, it will be ever the same,” said he 
to himself joyfully. “To-morrow the world will belong to 
me! I will not envy the king his crown, the scholar his 
learning, or youth and beauty their bloom. I shall be more 
powerful, more honored, more beloved than them all. I 
shall possess an inexhaustible fountain of gold. Gold is the 
lord and king of the world. The king and the philosopher, 
youth, beauty, and grace, bow down before its shrine. 
Oh, what a life of gladness and rapture will be mine! I 
shall be at liberty. I shall wed the woman I adore. The 
sun is sinking; the moon will soon ride triumphantly in the 
heavens, and then— 








FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 103 


A light rustling on the tapestry door interrupted him; 
and he turned anxiously toward this door, which led directly 
to the chamber of the king, and through which he alone 
could enter. It was indeed Frederick. He entered the room 
of his private secretary with a bright, gay smile. 

“T have come unexpectedly,” said the king. His clear, 
piercing glance instantly remarked the cloud which lowered 
upon the brow of Fredersdorf. “ But what will you have? 
The King and Fate, as Deus ex machind, appear without 
warning and confuse the calculations of insignificant mor- 
tals.” 

“T have made no calculations, sire,” said Fredersdorf, 
confused; “and the presence of my king can never disturb 
my peace.” 

“So much the better,” said Frederick, smiling. “ Well, 
I have made my calculations, and you, Fredersdorf, have an 
important part to play. We have a great work on hand, 
and if you have set your heart upon being at liberty this 
evening, I regret it; the hope is a vain one. This evening 
you are the prisoner of your king.” 

The king said this with so grave, so peculiar, and at the 
same time so kindly an expression, that Fredersdorf was in- 
voluntarily touched and softened, and he pressed his lips 
warmly upon the hand which Frederick held out to him. 

“We must work diligently,” said the king. “The time 
of idleness is past, and also the time consecrated to the 
Muses. Soon I will lay my flute in its case, and draw my 
sword from its scabbard. It appears that my godmother, 
Maria Theresa, thinks it unseemly for a King of Prussia to 
pass his days elsewhere than in a tented field, or to hear 
other music than the sound of trumpet or the thunder of 
cannon calling loudly to battle. Well, if Austria will have 
war, she shall have it promptly. Never will Prussia yield 
to her imperious conditions, and never will the house of 
Hohenzollern subject herself to the house of Hapsburg. My 
godmother, the empress, can never forget that the Prince- 
Elector of Brandenburg once, at the table, held a wash- 
basin for the emperor. For this reason she always regards 
us as cavaliere servente to the house of Hapsburg. Now, by 
the help of England, Saxony, and Russia, she hopes to bring 


104 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


us under the old yoke. But she shall not succeed. She 
has made an alliance with England, Russia, and Saxony. 
I have united with France and Bavaria, for the protection of 
Charles the Seventh. This, you see, Fredersdorf, is war. 
Our life of fantasy and dreaming is over. I have given 
you a little dish of politics,” said the king, after a pause. 
“I wish to show you that I have need of you, and that we 
have much to do. We must arrange my private accounts, 
we have many letters to write; and then we must select 
and prepare the rich presents to be given to the Princess 
Ulrica on her marriage. Fredersdorf, we cannot afford to 
be idle.” 

“T shall be ready at all times to obey the commands of 
my king. I will work the entire night; but I pray your 
majesty to grant me a few hours this evening—I have most 
important business, which cannot be postponed.” 

“ Ah! without doubt, you wish to finish the epistle of 
Horace, of which we spoke a few days since. If I remember 
correctly, this epistle relates to the useless offering of a 
lamb or black ram. Well, I give up this translation for the 
present; we have no time for it; and I cannot possibly give 
you leave of absence this evening.” 

“ And yet I dare to repeat my request,” said Fredersdorf, 
with passionate excitement. “Sire, my business cannot be 
postponed, and I beseech you to grant me a few hours.” 

“Tf you will not yield to the earnest wish of your friend, 
you will be forced to submit to the command of your king,” 
said Frederick, sternly. “I forbid you to leave your room 
this evening.” 

“ Have pity, sire, I entreat you! I wish but for two hours 
of liberty. I tell you my business is most important; the 
happiness of my life depends upon it.” 

The king shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. “The 
happiness of your life! How can this poor, short-sighted, 
vain race of mortals decide any question relating to ‘the 
happiness of life’? You seek it to-day, perhaps, in riches; 
to-morrow in the arms of your beloved; and the next day 
you turn away from and despise both the one and the other. 
I cannot fulfil your wish; I have important work for you, 
and will not grant you one moment’s absence.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 105 


“ Sire, I must—” 

“Not another word! you remain here; I command you 
not to leave this room! ” 

“T will not obey this command,” said Fredersdorf, com- 
pletely beside himself with rage and despair. “ Will your 
majesty dismiss me from your service, withdraw your favor, 
and banish me forever from your presence? I must and 
will have some hours of liberty this evening.” 

The king’s eyes flashed lightning, and his features as- 
sumed so threatening an expression, that Fredersdorf, 
though completely blinded by passion, trembled. Without 
a word in reply, the king stepped hastily to the door which 
led into the corridor. Two soldiers stood before the 
door. 

“You will see that no one leaves this room,” said Fred- 
erick—“ you will fire upon any one who opens the door.” 
He turned and fixed his eyes steadily upon the pale face of 
the secretary. “I said to you that you were the prisoner of 
your king to-day. You would not understand my jest. I 
will force you to see that I am in earnest. The guards 
stand before this door; the other door leads to my apartment, 
and I will close it. You shall not work with me to-day; 
you. are not worthy of it. You are a bold rebel, deserving 
punishment, and ‘ having eyes see not.’ ” 

Fredersdorf had not the courage to reply. The king 
stepped hastily through the room and opened the tapestry 
door; as he stood upon the threshold, he turned once again. 
“Fredersdorf, the time will come when you will thank me 
for having been a stern king.” THe closed the door, placed 
the key in his pocket, and returned to his room, where Jor- 
dan awaited him. 

“ And now, friend, the police may act promptly and rig- 
orously; Fredersdorf will not be there, and I shall not find 
it necessary to punish him further. Alas! how difficult 
it is to turn a fool from his folly! Fredersdorf would learn 
to make gold through the sacrifice of a black ram; in order 
to do this, he joins himself to my adversaries, to the hypo- 
erites and pietists; he goes to the so-called prayer-meetings 
of the godless, who call themselves, forsooth, the children of 
God! Ah! Jordan, how selfish, how pitiful is this small 


106 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


race of man! how little do they merit! I took Fredersdorf 
from obscurity and poverty. I not only took him into my 
service, I made him my confidant and my friend—I loved 
him sincerely. And what is my reward? He is ungrateful, 
and he hates me with a perfect hatred he is now sitting in 
his room and cursing his king, who has done nothing more 
than protect him from the withering ridicule which his 
childish and mad pursuit was about to bring upon him. 
Jordan, Jordan! kings are always repaid with ingrati- 
tude.” 

“Yes, sire; and God, our heavenly Father, meets with 
the same reward,” said Jordan, with a painful smile. “God 
and the king are the two powers most misunderstood. In 
their bright radiance they stand too high above the sons 
of men: they demand of the king that he shall be all-wise, 
almighty, even as God is; they require of God that He 
shall judge and act as weak, short-sighted men do, not 
‘knowing the end from the beginning.’ ” 

The king did not reply; with his arms folded, he walked 
thoughtfully through the room. 

“Poor Fredersdorf,” said he, softly, “I have slain his 
hobby-horse, and that is always an unpardonable offence to 
any man. I might, perhaps, have closed my-eyes to the mad 
follies of these so-called pietists, if they had not drawn my 
poor secretary into the toils. For his sake I will give them 
a lesson. I will force him to see that they are hypocrites and 
charlatans. Happen what will, I have saved Fredersdorf 
from ridicule; if he curses me for this, I can bear it cheer- 
fully.” 


sion. He cursed the king, not only in his heart, but with his 
trembling lips; he called him a tyrant, a heartless egotist. 
He hated him, even as an ignorant, unreasoning child hates 
the kind hand which corrects and restrains. 

“They will discover this mystery; they will learn how 
to make gold, and I shall not be there,” murmured Freders- 
dorf, gnashing his teeth; “who knows? perhaps they will 
not divulge to me this costly receipt! They will lie to me 
and deceive me. Ah! the moon is rising; she casts her 
pure, silver rays into this hated room, now become my 


The king was right; Fredersdorf was insane with pas- 


— 
——. 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 107- 


prison. Now, even now, they are assembling; now the holy 
incantation begins, and I—I am not there!” He tore his 
hair, and beat his breast, and cried aloud. , 

Fredersdorf was right. As the moon rose, the conspira- 
- tors, who had been notified by Von Kleist, the husband of 
the beautiful! Louise von Schwerin, began to assemble. The 
great saloon in which the gay and laughter-loving Louise 
had given her superb balls and soirées—in which her dancing 
feet had trampled upon her fortune and her happiness— 
was now changed into a solemn temple of worship, where 
the pious believers assembled to pray to God and to adjure 
the devil. The king had forbidden that the churches should 
be opened except on Sunday and the regular féte days. 
Some over-pious and fanatical preachers had dared to dis- 
obey this order. The assemblies had been broken up by 
force of arms, the people driven to their homes, and the 
churches closed. Both priests and people were threatened 
with severe punishment if they should dare to open the 
churches again during the week.* 

The pietists, forgetting the Bible rule, to “give unto 
Cesar that which is Cesar’s,” refused obedience to the 
spirit of the command, and assembled together in the dif- 
ferent houses of the faithful. Their worship consisted 
principally in stern resolves to remain obedient to the only 
true doctrine. To the proud fanatic this is, of course, the 
faith which he professes, and there is salvation in no other. 
With zealous speech they railed at the king as a heretic or 
unbeliever, and strengthened themselves in their disobedi- 
ence to his commands by declaring it was well-pleasing in 
the sight of God. 

The pietists, who had in vain endeavored to retain the 
power and influence which they had enjoyed under Fred- 
erick William, whom they now declared to have been the 
holiest and wisest of kings, had become the bitterest enemies 
of Frederick the Great. The king called their piety hypoc- 
risy, laughed at their rage, replied to their curses by witty 
words and biting sarcasm; and on one occasion, after lis- 
tening to an impertinent request, he replied laconically: 


* Preuss’s “ Geschichte Friedrichs des Grossen.” 


108 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“The cursed priest don’t know himself what he wants. Let 
him go to the devil! ”* 

This so-called prayer-meeting was to take place to-day in 
the ball-room of the beautiful Louise, after the regular 
hour of worship. Only the elect and consecrated would re- 
main behind to take part in the deeper mysteries, and be 
witness to the incantation by which the astrologist Pfannen- 
schmidt would constrain his majesty the devil to appear. 
No woman was allowed to be present at this holy ordinance, 
and each one of the consecrated had sworn a solemn oath 
not to betray an act of the assembly. 

' Von Kleist had taken the oath, and kept it faithfully. 
But there is a wise Persian proverb which says: “If you 
would change an obedient and submissive wife into a proud 
rebel, you have only to forbid something! If you wish to 
keep a secret from the wife of your bosom, slay yourself, or 
tear out your tongue; if you live, she will discover your 
secret, even though hidden in the bottom of your heart.” 
Louise von Kleist had proved the truth of this proverb. 
She had discovered the secret which her husband wished to 
conceal from her. She had soon recovered from the fleeting 
love entertained at first for the husband chosen for her by the 
king. She had returned to the levity of her earlier days, 
and only waited for an opportunity to revenge herself upon 
her husband. Louise hated him because he had never been 
rich enough to gratify her extravagant taste and caprices. 
He had even restrained her in the use of her own means: 
they were always in want of money, and constantly railing 
bitterly at each other. 

For all this misery Louise wished to revenge herseif upon 
her husband, as beautiful and coquettish women always wish 
to revenge themselves. She was more than ready to be- 
lieve the words of that poet who says that “a woman’s heart 
is always girlish and youthful enough for a new love.” She 
wished to take special vengeance upon her husband for dar- 
ing to keep a secret from her. So soon as she discovered 
the object of these secret meetings, she informed the king, 
and implored him to come to her assistance and rescue her 
husband from those crooked paths which had cost her her 


* Busching’s “ Character of Frederick the Great.” 


Fa ey On ae 


ae ee ee ee a 








FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 109 


wedded happiness and her fortune. Frederick agreed at once 
to her proposition, not so much for her sake as because he 
rejoiced in the opportunity to free Fredersdorf from the 
mystic suppositions which had clouded his intellect, and con- 
vince him of the cunning and hypocrisy of the alchemist 
Pfannenschmidt. 

Every necessary preparation had been made by order of 
the king. The pious assembly had scarcely met, when 
Louise called the four policemen who were waiting in a 
neighboring house, and placed them in a small closet ad- 
joining the ball-room, where every thing which took place 
could be both seen and heard. 

The conspirators had no suspicion. The meeting was 
larger than ever before. There were people of all classes, 
from the day laborer to the comfortable burgher, from the 
honorable officer under government to the highest noble. 
They prayed earnestly and fervently, and sang hymns 
to the honor and glory of God. Then one of the popular 
priests stepped into the pulpit and thundered forth one of 
those arrogant, narrow-minded, and violent discourses which 
the believers of those days indulged in. He declared all 
those lost, condemned to eternal torture, who did not be- 
lieve as he believed; and all those elected and sanctified 
who adhered to his holy faith, and who, despising the com- 
mand of the heretical king, met together for these forbidden 
services. 

All this, however, was but the preparation for the great 
solemnity prepared for the initiated, who were now waiting 
with loudly-beating hearts and breathless expectation for the 
grand result. : 

And now another orator, the astrologer, the enlightened 
prophet of God, ascended the pulpit. With what pious 
words he warned his hearers to repentance! how eloquently 
he exhorted them to contemn the hollow and vain world, 
which God had only made lovely and attractive in order to 
tempt men to sin and try their powers of resistance! “ Re- 
sist! resist!” he howled through his nose, “and persuade 
men to turn to you, and be saved even as we are saved—to 
become angels of God, even as we are God’s holy angels.” In 
order, however, to reach their exalted goal, they must make 


110 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


greater efforts, use larger means. Power and wealth were 
necessary to make the world happy and convert it to the 
true faith. The world must become wholly theirs; they 
must buy from the devil the gold which he has hid in the 
bowels of the earth, and with it allure men, and save their 
souls from perdition. “We, by the grace of God, have been 
empowered to subdue the devil, and to force him to give 
up his secret. To those who, like ourselves, are enlightened 
by the holy spirit of knowledge, the mysteries of the lower 
world must be made clear. It is also a noble and great 
work which we have before us; we must make gold, and with 
it we must purchase and convert the whole race to holi- 
ness! ” 

When this pious rhapsody was concluded, he called the 
assembly to earnest prayer. They fell upon their knees, 
and dared to pray to God that He would give them strength 
to adjure the devil. 

It was not, however, exactly the plan of the astrologer to 
crown the efforts of the elect with success, and bring the 
devil virtually before them. As long as his majesty did not 
appear, the pious must believe and hope in their priest; 
must give him their love, their confidence, and their gold; 
must look upon him as their benefactor, who was to crown 
their future with glory and riches, and bring the world to 
their feet. In short, he knew it was impossible for him to 
introduce a devil who could disclose the great secret. The 
prayers and offerings of the past had failed, and their future 
sacrifices must also be in vain. 

And now, in the midst of solemn hymns, the ram was led 
to the altar—this rare offering which had cost so much 
weary wandering and so much precious gold. With pom- 
. pous ceremony, and covered with a white veil, the black ram 
was led to the sacrifice. The holy priest Pfannenschmidt, 
clothed in gold-embroidered robes, stood with a silver knife 
in his hand, and a silver bowl to receive the blood of the vic- 
tim. As he raised the knife, the faithful threw themselves 
upon their knees and prayed aloud, prayed to God to be with 
them and bless their efforts. 

The astrologer, glowing with piety and enthusiasm, was 
about to sink the knife into the throat of the poor trembling 





ee we Ee 





———K_ 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 11] 


beast, when suddenly something unheard of, incredible, took 
place. A figure fearful to look upon sprang fiercely from 
behind the altar, and seized the arm of the priest. 

“Spare the offering, let the sacrifice go free!” he said, 
with a thundering voice. “ You have called me, and I am 
here! I am the devil!” 

“The devil! it is truly the devil!” and, with timid 
glances, they looked up at the giant figure, clothed in crim- 
son, his face completely shaded by a wide-brimmed hat, from 
which three crimson feathers waved majestically: these, 
with his terrible club-foot, all gave unmistakable evidence 
of the presence of Satan. They believed truly in him, these 
pious children of God; they remained upon their knees and 
stammered their prayers, scarcely knowing themselves if 
they were addressed to God or to the devil. 

There in the little cabinet stood Louise von Kleist, trem- 
bling with mirth, and with great effort suppressing an out- 
burst of laughter. She looked with wicked and mocking 
eyes upon her husband, who lay shivering and deadly pale ax 
the feet of the devil and the black ram. He fixed his plead- 
ing glances upon the fiery monster who was to him indeed 
the devil. Louise, however, fully understood this scene; 
she it was who had induced young Fredersdorf to assume 
this part, and had assisted him in his disguise. i 

“This moment repays me, avenges me for all I have : 
suffered by the side of this silly and extravagant fool,” said . 
Louise to herself. “Oh, I will mock him, I will martyr him 
with this devil’s work. The whole world shall know of it, 
and, from this time forth, I shall be justified and pitied. 
No one will be surprised that I am not constant to my hus- 
band, that I cannot love him.” 

Whilst the pious-elect still rested upon their knees in 
trembling adoration, the priest Pfannenschmidt had recoy- 
ered from his surprise and alarm. He, who did not believe 
in the devil, although he daily addressed him, knew that 
the monster before him was an unseemly jest or a malicious 
interruption. He must, therefore, tear off his mask and ex- 
pose him to the faithful. 

With passionate energy he stretched out both his arms 
toward him. “ Away with you, you son of Baal! Fly, fly, 


112 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


before I unmask you! You are not what you appear. You 
are no true devil! ” 

“How! you deny me, your lord and master?” cried the 
intruder, raising his hand covered with a crimson glove, 
against the priest. “You have long called for me. You 
have robbed these, my children, of their gold in order to 
propitiate me, and now that I am come, you will not confess 
me before men! Perhaps you fear that these pious be- 
lievers will no longer lavish their attentions and their gold 
upon you, and suffer you to lead them by the nose. Go, go! 
you are not my high priest. I listened to your entreaties, 
and I came, but only to prove to my children that you are 
a deceiver, and to free them from your yoke. Away, you 
blasphemer of God and of the devil! Neither God nor the 
devil accepts your service; away with you!” Saying this, 
he seized the astrologer with a powerful arm, and dragged 
him toward the altar. 

But Pfannenschmidt was not the man to submit to such 
indignities. With a wild ery of rage, he rushed upon his 
adversary; and now began a scene which neither words nor 
colors could portray. The pious worshippers raised them- 
selves from their knees and stared for a moment at this curi- 
ous spectacle; and then, according as they believed in the 
devil or the priest, sprang forward to take part in the con- 
test. 

In the midst of this wild tumult the policemen appeared, 
to arrest those who were present, in the name of the king; 
to break up the assembly, and put an end to the noise and 
tumult. 

Louise, meanwhile, laughing boisterously, observed this 
whole scene from the cabinet; she saw the police seize the 
raging astrologer, who uttered curses, loud and deep, against 
the unbelieving king, who dared to treat the pious and pray- 
erful as culprits, and to arrest the servant and priest of the 
Lord. Louise saw these counts and barons, these officers 
and secretaries, who had been the brave adherents of the 
astrologer, slipping away with shame and confusion of face. 
She saw her own husband mocked and ridiculed by the 
police, who handed him an order from the king, written by 
the royal hand, commanding him to consider himself as 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 113 


under arrest in his own house. As Louise heard this order 
read, her laughter was hushed and her brow was clouded. 

“Truly,” said she, “that is a degree of consideration 
which looks like malice in the king. To make my husband a 
prisoner in his own house is to punish me fearfully, by con- 
demning me steadily to his hateful society. My God, how 
cruel, how wicked is the king! My husband is a prisoner 
here! that is to banish my beautiful, my beloved Salimberri 
from my presence. Oh, when shall we meet again, my love, 
my adorer?” , 


BOOK IL. 


CHAPTER I. 


THE TWO SISTERS. 


“T HAVE triumphed! I have reached the goal!” said 
Princess Ulrica, with a proud smile, as she laid her hymn- 
book aside, and removed from her head her long white veil. 

“ This important step is taken; yet one more grand ceremony, 
- and I will be the Princess Royal of Sweden—after that, a 
queen! They have not succeeded in setting me aside. 
Amelia will not be married before me, thus bringing upon 
me the contempt and ridicule of the mocking world. All 
my plans have succeeded. In place of shrouding my head 
in the funereal veil of an abbess, to which my brother had 
condemned me, I shall soon wear the festive myrtle-wreath, 
and ere long a crown will adorn my brow.” 

Ulrica threw herself upon the divan, in order to indulge 
quietly in these proud and happy dreams of the future, when 
the door was hastily thrown open, and the Princess Amelia, 
with a pale and angry face, entered the room. She cast one 
of those glances of flame, with which she, in common with the 
king, was wont to crush her adversaries, upon the splendid 
toilet of her sister, and a wild and scornful laugh burst 
from her lips. 

“T have not, then, been deceived,” she cried; “it is nota 
fairy tale to which I have listened. You come from the 
chapel? ” 

“T come from the chapel? yes,” said Ulrica, meeting the 
angry glance of her sister with a firm and steady look. Re- 
solved to breast the coming storm with proud composure, she 
folded her arms across her bosom, as if she would protect 


i ea 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 115 


herself from Amelia’s flashing eyes. “I come from the 
chapel—what further?” 

“ What further?” cried Amelia, stamping fiercely on the 
floor. “ Ah, you will play the harmless and the innocent! 
What took you to the chapel?” 

Ulrica looked up steadily and smilingly; then said, in a 
quiet and indifferent tone: “I have taken the sacrament of 
the Lord’s Supper, according to the Lutheran form of 
worship.” 

Amelia shuddered as if she felt the sting of a poisonous 
serpent. “That signifies that you are an apostate; that 
signifies that you have shamefully outwitted and betrayed 
me; that means—” 

“That signifies,” said Ulrica, interrupting her, “that I 
am a less pious Christian than you are; that you, my noble 
young sister, are a more innocent and unselfish maiden than 
the Princess Ulrica.” 

“ Words, words! base, hypocritical words!” cried Amelia. 
“You first inspired me with the thought which led to my 
childish and contradictory behavior, and which for some 
days made me the jest of the court. You are a false friend, 
a faithless sister! I stood in your path, and you put me 
aside. I understand now your perfidious counsels, your 
smooth, deceitful encouragement to my opposition against 
the proposition of the Swedish ambassador. I, forsooth, 
must be childish, coarse, and rude, in order that your gentle 
and girlish grace, your amiable courtesy, might shine with 
added lustre. I was your foil, which made the jewel of your 
beauty resplendent. Oh! it is shameful to be so misused, so 
outwitted by my sister! ” 

With streaming eyes, Amelia sank upon a chair, and hid 
her face with her trembling little hands. 

“Foolish child!” said Ulrica, “you accuse me fiercely, 
but you know that you came to me and implored me to find 
a means whereby you would be relieved from this hateful 
marriage with the Prince Royal of Sweden.” 

“You should have reasoned with me, you should have en- 
couraged me to give up my foolish opposition. You should 
have reminded me that I was a princess, and therefore con- 
demned * have no heart.” 


116 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“You said nothing to me of your heart; you spoke only 
of your religion. Had you told me that your heart rebelled 
against this marriage with the Crown Prince of Sweden, 
then, upon my knees, with all the strength of a sister’s love, 
I would have implored you to accept his hand, to shroud 
your heart in your robe of purple, and take refuge on your 
throne from the danger which threatens a young princess if 
she allows her heart to speak.” 

Amelia let her hands fall from her face, and looked up at 
her sister, whose great earnest eyes were fixed upon her with 
an expression of triumph and derision. 

“TI did not say that my heart had spoken,” she cried, sob- 
bing and trembling; “I only said that we poor princesses 
were not allowed to have hearts.” 

“No heart for one; but a great large heart, great enough 
for all!” cried Ulrica. “You accuse me, Amelia, but you 
forget that I did not intrude upon your confidence. You 
came to me voluntarily, and disclosed your abhorrence of 
this marriage; then only did I counsel you, as I would wish 
to be advised under the same circumstances. In a word, I 
counselled you to obey your conscience, your own convictions 
of duty.” 

“Your advice was wonderfully in unison with your 
own plans; your deceitful words were dictated by selfish- 
ness,” cried Amelia, bitterly. 

“T would not have adopted the course which I advised 
you to pursue, because my character and my feeling are 
wholly different from yours. My conscience is less tender, 
less trembling than yours. To become a Lutheran does not 
appear to me a crime, not even a fault, more particularly as 
this change is not the result of fickleness or inconstancy, but 
for an important political object.” 

“And your object was to become Queen of Swe- 
den?” 

“Why should I deny it? I accept this crown which you 
cast from you with contempt. I am ambitious. You were 
too proud to offer up the smallest part of your religious 
faith in order to mount the throne of Sweden. I do not 
fear to be banished from heaven, because, in order to be- 
come a queen, I changed the outward form of my religion; 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 117 


my inward faith is unchanged: if you repent your conduct— 
if you have modified your views—” 

“No, no!” said Amelia, hastily, “I do not repent. My 
grief and my despair are not because of this pitiful crown, 
but because of my faithless and deceitful sister who gave 
me evil counsel to promote her own interests, and while she 
seemed to love, betrayed me. Go, go! place a crown upon 
your proud head; you take up that which I despise and 
trample upon. I do not repent. I have no regrets. But, 
hark! in becoming a queen, you cease to be my sister. 
Never will I forget that through falsehood and treachery 
you won this crown. Go! be Queen of Sweden. Let the 
whole world bow the knee before you. I despise you. You 
have shrouded your pitiful heart in your royal robes. Fare- 
well!” 

She sprang to the door with flashing eyes and throbbing 
breast, but Ulrica followed and laid her hand upon her 
shoulder. 

“Let us not part in anger, my sister,” said she, softly— 
“ let us—” 

Amelia would not listen; with an angry movement she 
dashed the hand from her shoulder and fled from the 
room. Alone in her boudoir, she paced the room in stormy 
rage, wild passion throbbed in every pulse. With the in- 
sane fury of the Hohenzollerns, she almost cursed her 
sister, who had so bitterly deceived, so shamefully betrayed 
her. 

In outward appearance, as well as in character, the Prin- 
cess Amelia greatly resembled her royal brother: like him, 
. she was by nature trusting and confiding; but, once deceived, 
despair and doubt took possession of her. A deadly mildew 
destroyed the love which she had cherished, not only for 
her betrayer, but her confidence and trust in all around her. 
Great and magnanimous herself, she now felt that the rich 
fountain of her love and her innocent, girlish credulity were 
choked within her heart. With trembling lips, she said 
aloud and firmly: “I will never more have a friend. I do 
not believe in friendship. Women are all false, all cunning, 
all selfish. My heart is closed to them, and their deceitful 
smiles and plausible words can never more betray me. Oh, 


118 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


my God, my God! must I then be always solitary, always 
alone? must I—” 

Suddenly she paused, and a rich crimson blush overspread 
her face. What was it which interrupted her sorrowful 
words? Why did she fix her eyes upon the door so eagerly? 
Why did she listen so earnestly to that voice calling her 
name from the corridor. 

“ Pdllnitz, it is Pollnitz!” she whispered to herself, and 
she trembled fearfully. 

“T must speak with the Princess Amelia,” cried the mas- 
ter of ceremonies. 

“But that is impossible,” replied another voice; “her 
royal highness has closed the door, and will receive no 
one.” 

“ Her royal highness will open the door and allow me to 
enter aS soon as you announce me. I come upon a most 
important mission. The life-happiness of more than one 
woman depends upon my errand.” | 

“My God!” said Amelia, turning deadly pale, “ Péllnitz 
may betray- me if I refuse to open the door.” So saying, 
she sprang forward and drew back the bolt. 

“Look, now, Mademoiselle von Marwitz,” cried Poéllnitz, 
as he bowed profoundly, “was I not right? Our dear prin- 
cess was graciously pleased to open the door so soon as she 
heard my voice. Remark that, mademoiselle, and look upon 
me in future as a most important person, who is not only ac- 
corded les grandes but les petites entrées.” 

The Princess Amelia was but little inclined to enter into 
the jests of the master of ceremonies. 

“T heard,” said she, in a harsh tone, “ that you demanded 
importunately to see me, and you went so far as to declare 
that the happiness of many men depended upon this inter- 
view.” 

“Pardon me, your highness, I only said that the happi- 
ness of more than one woman depended upon it; and you 
will graciously admit that I have spoken the truth when you 
learn the occasion which brings me here.” 

“ Well, let us hear,” said Amelia, “ and woe to you if it is 
not a grave and important affair! ” 

“ Grave indeed; it concerns the toilets for a ball, and you 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 119. 


must confess that the happiness of more than one woman 
hangs upon this question.” 

“Tn truth, you are right, and if you came as milliner or 
dressmaker, Mademoiselle von Marwitz did wrong not to 
announce you immediately.” 

“Now, ladies, there is nothing less important on hand 
than a masked ball. The king has commanded that, besides 
the masked ball which is to take place in the opera-house, 
and to which the public are invited, another shall be ar- 
ranged here in the castle on the day before the betrothal of 
the Princess Ulrica.” 

“And when is that ceremony to take place?” said 
Amelia. ¢ 

“Has not your royal highness been informed? Ah, I 
forgot—the king has kept this a secret, and to no one but the 
queen-mother has it been officially announced. Yes, yes, the 
Princess Ulrica is to marry this little Prince of Holstein, 
who will, however, be King of Sweden. This solemn cere- 
mony takes place in four days; so we have but three days 
before the masquerade, and we must work night and day 
to prepare the necessary costumes—his majesty wishes it to 
be a superb féte. Quadrilles are arranged, the king has se- 
lected the partners, and I am here at his command, to say 
to your royal highness that you will take part in these 
quadrilles. You will dance a quadrille, in the costume of 
Francis the First, with the Margravine of Baireuth and the 
Duchess of Brunswick.” 

“ And who is to be my partner?” said Amelia, anxiously. 

“The Margrave von Schwedt.” 

“ Ah! my irresistible cousin. I see there the hand of my 
malicious brother; he knows how dull and wearisome I con- 
sider the poor margrave.” 

The princess turned away displeased, and walked up and 
down the room. 

“Did you not say that I, also, would take part in the 
quadrille? ” said Mademoiselle von Marwitz. 

“Certainly, mademoiselle; you will dance in Russian 
costume.” 

“ And who will be my partner? ” 

Péllnitz laughed heartily. “One would think that the 


120 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCT; OR, 


most important question was not as to the ball toilet, but as 
to the partner; that he, in short, was as much a life-question 
as the color and cut of your robe, or the fashion of your 
coiffure. So you demand the name of your partner? Ah, 
mademoiselle, you will be more than content. The partner 
whom the king has selected for you is one of our youngest, 
handsomest, most amiable and talented cavaliers; a youth 
whom Alcibiades would not have been indignant at being 
compared with, and whom Diana would have preferred, per- 
haps, to the dreaming and beautiful Endymion, had she 
found him sleeping. And mark you, you will not only dance 
with this pearl of creation, but in the next few days you must 
see and speak with him frequently. It is necessary that you 
should consult together over the choice and color of your 
costumes, and about the dances. If your royal highness will 
allow it, he must come daily to arrange these important 
points. Alas! why am I not a young maiden? Why can I 
not enjoy the felicity of loving this Adonis? Why can I 
not exchange this poor, burnt-out heart for one that glows 
and palpitates?” 

“You are a fool, and know nothing about a maiden’s 
heart! In your ecstasy for this Ganymede, who is probably 
an old crippled monster, you make rare confusion. You 
foree the young girl to play the part of the ardent lover, and 
give to your monster the character of a cool, vain fop.” 

“ Monster? My God! she said monster!” cried Péllnitz, 
pathetically. “Fall upon your knees, mademoiselle, and 
pray fervently to your good fortune to forgive you; you have 
sinned greatly against it, I assure you. You will confess 
this when I have told you the name of your partner.” 

“Name him, then, at last.” 

“Not before Princess Amelia is gracious enough to 
promise me that she will watch over and shield you; that 
she will never allow you a single téte-d-téte with your dan- 
gerous partner.” ° 

“ Ah, you will make me the duwennaof my maid of honor,” 
said Amelia, laughing. “I shall be the chaperon of my 
good Marwitz, and shield her from the weakness of her own 
heart.” 

“If your royal highness declines to give this promise, 


| 
: 


a ae 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 191 


Mademoiselle Marwitz shall have another partner. I can- 
not answer to my conscience if she is left alone, unobserved 
and unprotected, with the most beautiful of the beautiful.” 

“Be merciful, princess, and say yes. For you see well 
that this terrible Péllnitz will make me a martyr to curiosity. 
Consent, gracious princess, and then I may perhaps hear the 
name of my partner.” 

“Well, then,” said Amelia, smiling, “I consent to play 
Mentor to my maid of honor.” 

“Your royal highness promises then, solemnly, to be 
present at every conference between Mademoiselle von Mar- 
witz and her irresistible partner?” 

“T promise; be quick! Marwitz will die of curiosity, if 
you do not tell the name of this wonder.” 

“Well, now, that I have, so far as it is in my power, 
guarded the heart of this young girl from disaster, and 
placed it under the protecting eye of our noble princess, I 
venture to name my paragon. He is the young lieutenant— 
Baron von Trenck, the favorite of the king and the court.” 

Very different was the impression made by this name 
upon the two ladies. The eager countenance of Madem- 
oiselle von Marwitz expressed cool displeasure; while the 
princess, blushing and confused, turned aside to conceal the 
happy smile which played upon her full, rosy lips. 

Pdllnitz, who had seen all this, wished to give the prin- 
cess time to collect herself. He turned to Mademoiselle 
Marwitz and said: “I see, to my amazement, that our lovely 
maid of honor is not so enraptured as I had hoped. Mad- 
emoiselle, mademoiselle! you are a wonderful actress, but 
you cannot deceive me. You wish to seem disappointed and 
indifferent, in order to induce our gracious princess to with- 
draw her promise to me, and to think it unnecessary to be 
present at your interviews with Trenck. This acting is in 
vain. The princess has given her word, and she will most 
surely keep it.” 

“ Oertainly,” said Amelia, smiling, “I have no alterna- 
tive. Queens and princesses, kings and princes, are bound 
by their promises, even as common men, and their honor 
demands that they fulfil their contracts. I will keep my 
word. But enough of jesting for the present. Let us speak 


122 _ BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


now of the solemn realities of life, namely, of our toilets. 
Baron, give me your model engraving, and make known 
your views. Call my chambermaid, mademoiselle, and my 
dressmakers; we will hold a solemn conference.” 


CHAPTER IL. 


THE TEMPTER. 


As Mademoiselle von Marwitz left the room, Pdéllnitz 
took a sealed note from his pocket and handed it hastily 
to the princess. She concealed it in the pocket of her dress, 
and continued to gaze indifferently upon a painting of Wat- 
teau, which hung upon the wall. 

“Not one word! Still! Not one word!” whispered 
Poéllnitz. “You are resolved to drive my young friend to 
despair. You will not grant him one gracious word?” 

The princess turned away her blushing face, drew a note 
from her bosom, and, without a glance or word in reply, she 
handed it to the master of ceremonies, ashamed and con- 
fused, as a young girl always is, when she enters upon her 
first love romance, or commits her first imprudence. 

Pollnitz kissed her hand with a lover’s rapture. “He 
will be the most blessed of mortals,” said he, “and yet this 
is so small a favor! It lies in the power of your royal high- 
ness to grant him heavenly felicity. You can fulfil one wish 
which his trembling lips have never dared to speak; which 
only God and the eyes of one faithful friend have seen writ- 
ten in his heart.” 

“What is this wish?” said the princess, in so low and 
trembling a whisper, that Pollnitz rather guessed than heard 
her words. 

“T believe that he would pay with his life for the happi- 
ness of sitting one hour at your feet and gazing upon you.” 

“Well, you have prepared for him this opportunity; you 
have so adroitly arranged your plans, that I cannot avoid 
meeting him.” 


—-* 





I 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 193 


“ Ah, princess, how despondent would he be, if he could 
hear these cold and cruel words! I must comfort him by 
this appearance of favor if I cannot obtain for him a real 
happiness. Your royal highness is very cold, very stern to» 
ward my poor friend. My God! he asks only of your grace, 
that which the humblest of your brother’s subjects dare de- 
mand of him—an audience—that is all.” 

Amelia fixed her burning eyes upon Pollnitz. “Apage, 
Satanas!” she whispered, with a weary smile. 

“You do me too much honor,” said Péllnitz. “Un-« 
happily I am not the devil, who is, without doubt, next to 
God, the most powerful ruler of this earth. I am convinced 
that three-fourths of our race belong to him. I am, alas! 
but a poor, weak mortal, and my words have not the power 
to move the heart of your highness to pity.” 

“My God! Péllnitz, why all this eloquence and interces- 
sion?” cried Amelia. “ Do I not allow him to write to me 
all that he thinks and feels?) Am I not traitress enough to 
read all his letters, and pardon him for his love? What 
more can he dare hope for? Is it not enough that he loves 
a princess, and tells her so? Not enough—” 

She ceased suddenly; her eyes, which shrank from meet- 
ing the bold, reproachful, and ironical glance of the baron, 
had wandered restlessly about the room and fell now upon 
the picture of Watteau; upon the loving, happy pair, who 
were tenderly embracing under the oaks in the centre of 
that enchanting landscape. This group, upon which the eye 
of the princess accidentally rested, was an eloquent and de- 
cisive answer to her question—an answer made to the eyes, 
if not the ears of Amelia—and her heart trembled. 

Péllnitz had followed her glances, and understood her 
blushes and her confusion. He stepped to the picture and 
pointed to the tender lovers. 

“Gracious princess, demand of these blessed ones, if a 
man who loves passionately has nothing more to implore of 
his mistress than the permission to write her letters?” 

Amelia trembled. She fixed her eyes with an expression 
of absolute terror upon Péllnitz, who with his fox smile and 
immovable composure gazed steadily in her face. He had 
no pity for her girlish confusion, for her modest and maid- 


124 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


enly alarm. With gay, mocking, and frivolous jests, he re- 
solved to overcome her fears. He painted in glowing colors 
the anguish and despair of her young lover; he assured her 
that she could grant him a meeting in her rooms without 
danger from curious eyes or ears. Did not the room of the 
princess open upon this little dark corridor, in which no 
guard was ever placed, and from which a small, neglected 
stairway led to the lower étage of the castle? This stairway 
opened into an unoccupied room, the low windows of which 
looked out upon the garden of Monbijou. Nothing, then, 
was necessary but to withdraw the bar from these windows 
during the day; they could then be noiselessly opened by 
night, and the room of the princess safely reached. 

The princess was silent. By no look or smile, no con- 
traction of the brow or expression of displeasure, did she 
show her emotion, but she listened to these vile and danger- 
ous words; she let the poison of the tempter enter her heart; 
she had neither the strength nor will to reject his counsel, 
or banish him from her presence; she had only the power to 
be silent, and to conceal from Péllnitz that her better self 
was overcome. 

“T shall soon reach the goal,” said Péllnitz, clapping his 
hands merrily after leaving the princess. “Yes, yes! the 
heart of the little Princess Amelia is subdued, and her love 
is like a ripe fruit—ready to be plucked by the first eager 
hand. And this, my proud and cruel King Frederick, will 
be my revenge. I will return shame for shame. If the 
good people in the streets rejoice to hear the humiliation 
and shame put upon the Baron von Péllnitz, cried aloud at 
the corners, I think they will enjoy no less the scandal about 
the little Princess Amelia. This will not, to be sure, be 
trumpeted through the streets; but the voice of Slander is 
powerful, and her lightest whispers are eagerly received.” 

Péllnitz gave himself up for a while to these wicked and 
cruel thoughts, and he looked like a demon rejoicing in the 
anguish of his victims. He soon smoothed his brow, how- 
ever, and assumed his accustomed gay and unembarrassed 
manner. 

“But before I revenge myself, I must be paid,” said he, 
with an internal chuckle. “I shall be the chosen confidant 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 125 


in this adventure, and my name is not Péllnitz if I do not 
realize a large profit. Oh, King Frederick, King Frederick! 
I think the little Amelia will pay but small attention to your 
command and your menace. She will lend the poor Péllinitz 
gold; yes, gold, much gold! and I—I will pay her by my 
silence.” 

Giving himself up to these happy thoughts, the master of 
ceremonies sought the young lieutenant, in order to hand 
him the letter of the princess. 

“The fortress is ready to surrender,” cried he; “ad- 
vance and storm it, and you will enter the open door of the 
heart as conqueror. I have prepared the way for you to see 
the princess every day: make use of your opportunities like 
a brave, handsome, young, and loving cavalier. I predict 
you will soon be a general, or a prince, or something great 
and envied.” 

“ A general, a prince, or a high traitor, who must lay his 
head upon the block and expiate his guilt with his life,” said 
Trench thoughtfully. “Let it be so. In order to become 
this high traitor, I must first be the happiest, the most en- 
viable of men. I shall not think that too dearly paid for 
by my heart’s blood. Oh, Amelia, Amelia! I love thee 
boundlessly; thou art my happiness, my salvation, my hope; 
thou—” 

“Enough, enough!” said Péllnitz, laughing and placing 
his hands upon his ears. These are well-known, well-used, 
and much-abused phrases, which have been repeated in all 
languages since the time of Adam, and which after all are 
only lovely and fantastic lies. Act, my young friend, but 
say nothing; you know that walls have ears. The table 
upon which you write your letters, and the portfolio in which 
you place the letters of the princess, to be guarded to all 
eternity, both have prying eyes. Prudence, prudence! burn 
the letters of the princess, and write your own with sympa- 
thetic ink or in cipher, so that no man can read them, and 
none but God and the devil may know your dangerous se- 
cret.” 

Trenck did not hear one word of this; he was too happy, 
too impassioned, too young, to listen to the words of warn- 
ing and caution of the old rowé. He read again and again, 


126 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


and with ever-increasing rapture, the letter of the princess; 
he pressed it to his throbbing heart and glowing lips, and 
fixed his loving eyes upon those characters which her hand 
had written and her heart had dictated. 

Poéllnitz looked at him with a subdued smile, and enjoyed 
his raptures, even as the fox enjoys the graceful flappings 
of the wings, the gentle movements of the dove, when he 
knows that she cannot escape him, and grants her a few mo- 
ments of happiness before he springs upon and strangles her. 
“T wager that you know that letter by heart,” said he, as he 
slowly lighted a match in order to kindle his cigar; “am I 
not right? do you not know it by heart?” | 

“Every word is written in letters of flame upon my 
heart.” 

With a sudden movement, the baron snatched the paper 
from the young man and held it in the flames. 

“ Stop! stop!” cried Frederick von Trenck, and he tried 
to tear the letter from him. 

Pollnitz kept him off with one arm and waved the burn- 
ing paper over his head. 

“My God! what’ have you done?” cried the young 
man. 

“T have made a sacrifice to the god of silence,” said he 
solemnly; “I have burnt this paper lest it might be used to 
light the scaffold upon which you may one day burn as a high 
traitor. Thank me, young man. I have perhaps saved you 
from discovery and from death.” 


CHAPTER III. 


THE WEDDING FESTIVAL OF THE PRINCESS ULRICA. 


TruLY this perfidious friend had, for one day, guarded 
the secret of the young lovers from discovery ; but, the poison, 
which Pdllnitz in his worldly cunning prepared for them, had 
entered into their hearts. For some days they met under 
strong restraint; only by stolen glances and sighs, by a mo- 


me — ———————— a | 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 127 


mentary pressure of the hand, or a few slightly murmured 
words, could they give expression to their rapture and their 
passion. The presence of another held their hearts and lips 
in bondage. 

Péllnitz knew full well that there was no surer means to 
induce a young girl to grant her lover an interview than to 
force them to meet before strange witnesses, to bring every 
word and look into captivity, to condemn them to silence 
and seeming indifference. The glowing heart bounds 
against these iron bands; it longs to cast off the yoke of 
silence, and to breathe unfettered as the wanton air. Princess 
Amelia had borne two days of this martyrdom, and her cour- 
age failed. She was resolved to grant him a private inter- 
view as soon as he dared ask for it. She wished to see this 
handsome face, now clouded by melancholy, illuminated by 
the sunshine of happiness; those sad eyes “should look up 
clear, and the sorrowful lips should smile; she would make 
her lover happy!” She thought only of this; it was her 
only wish. 

There were many sad hours of pain and anguish, sad 
hours in which she saw her danger, and wished to escape. 
Tn her despair and agony she was almost ready to cast her- 
self at the feet of her mother, to confess all, and seek this 
sure protection against her own girlish weakness; but the 
voice of love in her heart held her back from this step; she 
elosed her eyes to the abyss which was before her and pressed 
panting onward to the brink. If Amelia had had a friend, 
a sister whom she could love and trust, she might have been 
saved; but her rank made a true friend impossible; being 
a princess, she was isolated. Her only friend and sister had 
alienated her heart, through the intrigues by which she had 
won the crown of Sweden. 

Perhaps these costly and magnificent wedding festivities 
which would have been prepared for her, had she not re- 
fused a husband worthy of her birth, aroused her anger, and 
in her rage and her despair she entered upon dangerous 
paths, and fell into the cruel snares of Péllnitz. She said 
to herself: “ Yes, all this honor and glory was my own, but 
my weak heart and my perfidious sister wrenched them from 
my grasp. Fate offered me a way of escape, but my sister 


128 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


cast me into the abyss in which I now stand; upon her rests 
the responsibility. Upon her head be my tears, my despair, 
my misery, and my shame. Ulrica prevented me from being 
a queen; well, then, I will be simply a young girl, who loves . 
and who offers up all to her beloved, her pride, her rank, and 
the unstained greatness of her ancestors. For Ulrica be 
honor, pomp, and power; for me the mystery of love, and a 
girl’s silent happiness. Who can say which of us is most to 
be envied ?” 

These were indeed happy, sunny days, which were pre- 
pared for the bride of Adolph Frederick of Holstein, the 
Crown Prince of Sweden. Féte succeeded to féte. The 
whole land took part in the happiness of the royal family. 
All the provinces and cities sent deputations to congratulate 
the king, and bring rich gifts to the princess; she who 
‘had been always cast into the shade by the more noble and 
bewildering beauty of her younger sister, had now become 
the centre of attraction in all these superb festivities which 
followed each other in quick succession. It was in honor of 
the Princess Ulrica that the king gave a masked ball in the 
opera-house, to which the whole city was invited; for her, 
on the evening of her betrothal, every street in Berlin was 
brilliantly illuminated with wax-lights, not by command of 
the king, but as a free-will offering of the people; for her 
the queen, at Schdnhausen, gave a superb ball; for her the 
Swedish ambassador arranged a féte, whose fabulous pomp 
and extravagant luxury were supposed to indicate the splen- 
dor which awaited her in her new home. Lastly, this ball at 
the royal palace, to which not only the nobles, but many of 
the wealthy burghers were invited, was intended as a special 
compliment to Ulrica. 

More than three thousand persons moved gayly through 
these royal saloons, odorous with the perfume of flowers, 
glittering with wax-lights, the glimmer of diamonds, and 
rich gold and silver embroideries—nothing was to be seen but 
ravishing toilets and happy faces. All the beauty, youth, 
rank, fame, and worth of Berlin were assembled at the pal- 
ace; and behind these lovely ladies and glittering cavaliers, 
the wondering, gaping crowd, of common men, moved slowly » 
onward, dumb with amazement and delight. The king had 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 1929 


commanded that no well-dressed person should be denied 
entrance to the castle. 

Those who had cards of invitation were the guests of the 
_ king, and wandered freely through the saloons. Those who 
came without cards had to content themselves behind the 
silken ropes stretched across one side of the rooms; by 
means of this rope an almost invisible and yet an insur- 
mountable barrier was interposed between the people and the 
court circle. 

It was difficult to preserve the rules and customs of 
courtly etiquette in such a vast assembly, and more difficult 
still to see that every man was received and served as the 
guest of a king, and suitable to his own personal merit. 
Crowds of lackeys flew through the rooms bearing silver 
plateauz filled with the richest viands, the most costly fruits, 
and the rarest wines. Tables were loaded with the luxuries 
of every clime and season, and the clang of glasses and the 
sweet sound of happy laughter were heard in every direction. 
The king expressed a proud confidence in his good people of 
Berlin, and declined the services of the police. He com- 
missioned some officers of his life-guard to act as his substi- 
tute and play the host, attending to the wants and pleasures 
of all. Supper was prepared in the picture-gallery for the 
court circle. 

But what means this wild laughter which echoes suddenly 
through the vast crowd and reaches the ear of the king, who 
looks up surprised and questioning to his master of cere- 
monies, and orders him to investigate the tumult? In a few 
moments Péllnitz returned, accompanied by a young officer, 
whose tall and graceful figure, and whose handsome face, 
glowing with youth, pride, and energy, attracted the atten- 
tion of the noblest ladies, and won a smile of admiration 
from the queen-mother. 

“ Sire,” said Péllnitz, “a mask in the guise of a thief, 
and in the zealous pursuit of his calling, has robbed one of 
the officers who were commanded by your majesty to guard 
the public peace and property. Look, your majesty, at our 
young lieutenant, Von Trenck: in the midst of the crowd, 
his rich, gold-embroidered scarf has been adroitly removed; 
in his zeal for your service, he forgot himself, and the merry 


130 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


gnome, whom Trenck should have kept in order, has made 
our officer the target for his sleight of hand. This jest, sire, 
caused the loud laughter which you heard.” 

The eyes of the king rested with an expression of kindli- 
ness and admiration upon the young man, and the Princess 
Amelia felt her heart tremble with joy and hope. A rich 
crimson suffused her cheeks; it made her almost happy to 
see that her lover was appreciated by her exalted brother and 
king. 

“T have watched and wondered at him during the whole 
evening,” said the king, merrily; “his glance, like the eye of 
Providence, pierces the most distant and most obscure cor- 
ner, and sees all that occurs. That he who sees all else has 
forgotten himself, proves that he is not vain, and that he 
forgets his own interests in the discharge of his public duties. 
I will remember this and reward him, not in the gay saloon, 
but on the battle-field, where, I am sure, his scarf will not be 
taken from him.” 

Frederick gave his hand to the young officer, who pressed 
it warmly to his lips; then turning to the queen-mother, he 
said: “ Madame, I know that this young man has been com- 
mended to you, allow me also to bespeak your favor in his 
behalf; will your majesty have the grace to instruct him in 
all the qualities which should adorn a noble cavalier? I will 
make him a warrior, and then we shall possess a nobleman 
beyond praise, if not beyond comparison.” 

The king, rising from the table, left his seat and laid his 
hand kindly upon Trenck’s shoulder. “He is tall enough,” 
said Frederick laughing; “for that he may thank Provi- 
dence; let him not be satisfied with that, but strive to be 
great, and for that he may thank himself.” He nodded 
graciously to Trenck, gave his arm to the queen-mother, and 
led her into the ball-room. 


—— 


pi i ier mls 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 13] 


CHAPTER IV. 


BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 


THE crowd and heat of the dancing-saloon were intoler- 
able. All wished to see the quadrille in which the two prin- 
cesses, the loveliest women of the court, and the most gal- 
lant cavaliers were to appear. The music also was a special 
object of interest, as it was composed by the king. The 
first quadrille closed in the midst of tumultuous applause, 
restrained by no courtly etiquette. The partners for the 
second quadrille advanced to the gay and inspiring sound of 
pipes and drums. 

The Princess Amelia had withdrawn from the crowd into 
a window recess. She was breathless and exhausted from 
the dance and the excitement of the last few days. She re- 
quired a few moments of rest, of refreshment, and medita- 
tion. She drew the heavy silk curtains carefully together, 
and seated herself upon the little tabouret which stood in the 
recess. This quiet retreat, this isolation from the thought- 
less crowd, brought peace to her soul. It was happiness to 
close her weary eyes, and indulge in sweet dreams to the 
sound of this glorious music; to feel herself shut off from 
the laughing, heartless crowd. 

She leaned her lovely head upon the cushion, not to sleep 
but to dream. She thought of her sister, who would soon 
place a crown upon her head; who had sold herself for this 
crown to a man whom she had never seen, and of whom she 
knew nothing, but that he was heir to a throne. Amelia 
shuddered at the thought that Ulrica had sacrificed her re- 
ligion to this man, whom she knew not, and had promised at 
God’s altar to love and be faithful to him. In the purity 
and innocence of her girlish heart she considered this a 
crime, a sacrilege against love, truth, and faith. “I will 
never follow Ulrica’s example,” she whispered to herself. “I 
will never sell myself. I will obey the dictates of my heart 
and give myself to the man I love.” As she said this, a crim- 
son glow overspread her cheeks, and she opened her eyes wide, 
as if she hoped to see the man she loved before her, and 


132 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


wished him to read in her steady glance the sweet confirma- 
tion of the words she had so lightly whispered. 

“No, no! I will never marry without love. I love, and 
as there can be but one true love in a true life, I shall never 
marry—then—” She ceased and bowed her head upon her 
bosom, her trembling lips refused to speak the hope and 
dream of her heart, to give words to the wild, passionate 
thoughts which burned like lava in her breast, and, like the 
wild rush of many waters, drowned her reason. She thought 
that in the eloquence of her great love she might touch 
the heart of the king, and in the magnanimity of his 
soul he might allow her to be happy, to place a simple myrtle- 
wreath upon her brow. She repeated the friendly and ad- 
miring words which the king had spoken to her lover. She 
saw again those wondrous eyes resting with interest and 
admiration upon the splendid form of the young baron. A 
happy, playful smile was on her lip. “The king himself 
finds him handsome and attractive; he cannot then wonder 
that his sister shares his opinion. He will think it natural 
that I love him—that—” 

A wild storm of applause in the saloon interrupted the 
current of her thoughts. She drew the curtains slightly 
apart, and gazed into the room. The second quadrille was 
ended, and the dancers were now sinking upon the tabourets, 
almost breathless from fatigue. 

The princess could not only see, but she could hear. Two 
ladies stood just in front of the curtains behind which she 
was concealed, engaged in earnest conversation; they spoke 
of Frederick von Trenck; they were enraptured with his 
athletic form and glowing eyes. 

“He has the face of a Ganymede and the figure of a 
Hercules,” said one. “I think him as beautiful as the 
Apollo Belvedere,” said the other; “and then his expression 
is so pure and innocent. JI envy the woman who will be his 
first love.” 

“You think, then, that he has never loved?” 

“T am sure of it. The passion and fire of his heart are 
yet concealed under the veil of youth. He is unmoved by 
a woman’s tender smiles and her speaking and promising 
glances. He does not understand their meaning.” 





| 
: 
4 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 133 


“ Have you tried these powerful weapons?” 

“T have, and I confess wholly in vain; but I have not 
given up the contest, and I shall renew the attack until—” 

The ladies now moved slowly away, and the princess 
heard no more, but she knew their voices; they were Madame 
von Brandt and Louise von Kleist, whom the king often 
called the “ loveliest of the lovely.” Louise von Kleist, the 
irresistible coquette, who was always surrounded by wor- 
shippers and adorers, confessed to her friend that all her 
tender glances had been unavailing; that she had in vain at- 
tempted to melt the ice-rind of his heart. 

“ But she will renew her efforts,” cried Amelia, and her 
heart trembled with its first throb of jealousy. “Oh, I 
know Louise von Kleist! She will pursue him with her 
tenderness, her glances of love, and bold encouragement, 
until he admires, falls at her feet a willing victim. But no, 
no, I cannot suffer that. She shall not rob me of my only 
happiness—the golden dream of my young life. He be- 
longs to me, he is mine by the mighty power of passion, he is 
bound to me by a thousand holy oaths. I am his first love. 
I am that happy woman whom he adores, and who is envied 
by the beauteous Louise von Schwerin. He is mine and he 
shall be mine, in spite of the whole world. I love him, and I 
give myself to him.” 

And now she once more looked through the curtains 
and shrank back in sweet surprise. Right before her stood 
Trenck—the Apollo of Louise von Kleist, the Hercules and 
the Ganymede of Madame von Brandt, the beloved of the 
Princess Amelia—Trenck stood with folded arms immovable, 
and gazed piercingly in the crowd of maskers. Perhaps he 
sought for Amelia; perhaps he was sorrowful because she 
had withdrawn herself. | 

Suddenly he heard a soft, low voice whispering: “Do 
not move, do not turn—remain standing as you are; but if 
you hear and understand me, bow your head.” 

Frederick von Trenck bowed his head. But the princess 
could not see the rapturous expression which illuminated his 
face; she could not know that his breath almost failed him; 
sy could not hear the stormy, tumultuous beating of his 

eart. 


134 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“Do you know who speaks? if you recognize me, incline 
your head.” 

The music sounded loud and clear, and the dancing feet, 
the gay jest, and merry laughter of five hundred persons 
gave confidence and security to the lovers. Frederick was 
not content with this silent sign. He turned toward the 
recess and said in low tones: “ I know the voice of my angel, 
and I would fall upon my knees and worship her, but it would 
bring danger and separation.” 

“ Still! say no more,” whispered the voice; and Trenck 
knew by its trembling tones, that the maiden was inspired by 
the same ardent passion which glowed in every fibre of his 
being. That still small voice sounded in his ears like the 
notes of an organ: “Say no more. but listen. ‘To-morrow 
the Princess Ulrica departs for Sweden, and the king goes to 
Potsdam; you will accompany him. Have you a swift horse 
that knows the way from Potsdam to Berlin, and can find it 
by night?” 

“T have a swift horse, and for me and my horse there is 
no night.” 

“Four nights from this you will find the window which 
you know open, and the door which leads to the small stair, 
only closed. Come at the hour of eleven, and you will re- 
ceive a compensation for the scarf you have lost this evening. 
Hush—no word; look not around, move onward indifferent- 
ly; turn not your head. Farewell! in four days—at eleven 
—zo 1” 

“T had to prepare a coat of mail for him, in order that 
he might be invulnerable,” whispered Amelia tremblingly; 
exhausted and remorseful, she sank back upon the tabouret. 
“The beautiful Kleist shall not ravish my beloved from me. 
He loves me—me alone;: and he shall no longer complain of 
my cruelty. I dare not be cruel! I dare not make him un- 
happy, for she might comfort him. He shall love nothing 
but me, only me! If Louise von Kleist pursues him with 
her arts, I will murder her—that is all!” 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 135 


CHAPTER V. 


4 SHAME-FACED KING. 


Tue king laid his flute aside, and walked restlessly and 
sullenly about his room. His brow was clouded, and he had 
in vain sought distraction in his faithful friend, the flute. 
Its soft, melodious voice brought no relief; the cloud was in 
his heart, and made him the slave of melancholy. Perhaps 
it was the pain of separation from his sister which oppressed 
his spirit. 

The evening before, the princess had taken leave of the 
Berliners at the opera-house, that is, she had shown herself 
to them for the last time. While the prima donna was sing- 
ing her most enchanting melodies, the travelling carriage of 
Ulrica drove to the door. The king wished to spare himself 
the agony of a formal parting, and had ordered that she 
should enter her carriage at the close of the opera, and de- 
part, without saying farewell. 

The people knew this. They were utterly indifferent to 
the beautiful opera of “ Rodelinda,” and fixed their eyes 
steadily upon the king’s loge. They thus took a silent and 
affectionate leave of their young princess, who appeared be- 
fore them for the last time, in all the splendor of her youth 
and beauty, and the dignity of her proud and royal bearing. 
An unwonted silence reigned throughout the house; all eyes 
were turned to the box where the princess sat between the 
two queens. Suddenly the door was thrown open, and the 
young Prince Ferdinand rushed, with open arms, to his . 
sister. 

“My dear, dear Ulrica!” he cried, weeping and sobbing 
painfully, “ must it then be so? Do I indeed see you for the 
last time?” With childish eagerness he embraced his sister, 
and leaned his head upon her bosom. The princess could no 
longer control herself; she mingled her tears with those of 
her brother, and drawing him softly out of view, she whis- 
pered weeping and trembling words of tenderness; she im- 
plored him not to forget her, and promised to love him al- 
ways. 


136 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


The queen-mother stood near. She had forgotten that 
she was a queen, and remembered only that she was a mother 
about to lose her child forever; the thought of royal dignity 
and courtly etiquette was for some moments banished from 
her proud heart; she saw her children heart-broken and 
weeping before her, and she wept with them.* 

The people saw this. Never had the most gracious smile, 
the most condescending word of her majesty, won their hearts 
so completely as these tears of the mother. Every mother 
felt for this woman, who, though a queen, suffered a mother’s 
anguish; and every maiden wept with this young girl, who, 
although entering upon a splendid future, shed hot tears 
over the happy past and the beloved home. When the men 
saw their wives and children weeping, and the prince not 
ashamed of his tears, they also wept, from sympathy and 
love to the royal house. In place of the gay jest and merry 
laughter wont to prevail between the acts, scarcely sup- 
pressed sobs were the only sounds to be heard. The glorious 
singer Salimberri was unapplauded. The Barbarina danced, 
but the accustomed bravos were hushed. 

Was it the remembrance of this touching scene which 
moved the king so profoundly? Did this eternal separation 
from his beloved sister weigh upon his heart? The king 
himself knew not, or he would not acknowledge to himself 
what emotion produced this wild unrest. After laying his 
flute aside, he took up Livy, which lay always upon his 
writing-table, and tried to read a chapter; but the letters 
danced before his eyes, and his thoughts wandered far 
away from the old Roman. He threw the book peevishly 
aside, and, folding his arms, walked rapidly backward and 
forward. 

“ Ah me! ah me! I wish this were the day of battle!” 
he murmured. “To-day I should be surely victorious! I 
am in a fierce and desperate mood. The wild roar of con- 
flict would be welcome as a sweet home song in a strange 
land, and the shedding of blood would be medicinal, and re- 
lieve my oppressed brain. What is it which has drawn this 
veil over my spirit? What mighty and mysterious power 
has stretched her hand over me? With what bounds am I 


* Schneider’s “ History of the Opera and the Royal Opera-House.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 137 


held a helpless captive? I feel, but I cannot see them, and 
cannot tear them apart. No, no! I will be lord of myself. 
I will be no silent dreamer. I will live a true life. I will 
work, and be a faithful ruler, if I cannot be a free and 
happy man.” 

He rang the bell, and ordered the ministers to assemble 
for a cabinet council. 

“T will work, and forget every thing else,” he said, with a 
sad smile, and he entered his cabinet with this proud re- 
solve. 

This time the king deceived himself. The most earnest 
occupation did not drive the cloud from his brow: in fact, it 
became more lowering. 

“T cannot endure this,” he said, after walking backward 
and forward thoughtfully. “I will put a stop to it. As I 
am not a Ulysses, I do not see why I should bind my eyes, 
and stop my ears with wax, in order not to see this bewilder- 
ing siren, and hear her intoxicating song. In this sorrowful 
and pitiful world, is it not a happiness to meet with an en- 
chantress, to bow down to the magic of her charms, and for 
a small half hour to dream of bliss? All other men are mad: 
why should I alone be reasonable? Come, then, spirit of 
love and bliss, heavenly insanity, take possession of my 
struggling soul. Let old age be wise and cool, I am young 
and warm. For a little while I will play the fool, and forget 
my miserable dignity.” 

Frederick called his servant, and sent for General Roth- 
enberg, then took his flute and began to play softly. When 
the general entered, the king nodded to him, but quietly 
finished his adagio; then laid the flute aside, and gave his 
hand to his friend. 

“You must be Pylades, my friend, and banish the de- 
spondency which oppresses the heart and head of thy poor 
Orestes.” 

“T will be all that your majesty allows or commands me 
to be,” said the general, laughing; “ but I think the queen- 
mother would be little pleased to hear your majesty compare 
yourself to Orestes.” 

“ Ah, you allude to Clytemnestra’s faithless love-story, 
with which, truly, my exalted and virtuous mother cannot 


138 - BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


be associated. Well, my comparison is a little lame, but my 
despondency is real—deeply seated as my friendship for 
you.” 

“How! your majesty is melancholy? I understand this 
mood of my king,” said Rothenberg. “It only takes pos- 
session of you the day before some great deed, and only then 
because the night before the day of triumph seems too long. 
Your majesty confesses that you are sad. I conclude, there- © 
fore, that we will soon have war, and soon rejoice in the vic- 
tories of our king.” 

“Perhaps you are right,” said the king, cout sal | 
do not love war, but it is sometimes a necessary evil; and if 
I cannot relieve my godmother, Maria Theresa, of this mor- 
tal malady of pride and superciliousness without a general 
blood-letting, I must even play the physician and open a 
vein. The alliance with France is concluded; Charles the 
Seventh goes to Frankfort for coronation; the French am- 
bassador accompanies him, and my army stands ready for 
battle, ready to protect the emperor against Austria. We 
will soon have war, friend, and I hope we will soon have a 
victory to celebrate. In a few weeks we will advance. Oh, 
Rothenberg! when I speak of battle, I feel that I am young, 
that my heart is not of stone—it bounds and beats as if it 
would break down its prison walls, and found a new home 
of glory and fame.” | 

“ The heart of my king will be ever young; it is full of 
trust and kindliness.” 

Frederick shook his head thoughtfully. “Do not be- 
lieve that, Rothenberg; the hands that labor become hard 
and callous, and so is it with the heart. Mine has labored 
and suffered; it will turn at last to stone. Then I shall be 
condemned. The world will forget that it is responsible; 
they will speak only of my hard heart, and say nothing of 
the anguish and the deceptions which have turned me to 
stone. But what of that? Let these foolish two-legged 
creatures, who proudly proclaim that they are made in the 
image of God, say what they please of me; they cannot de- 
prive me of my fame and my immortality. He who possesses 
that has received his reward, and dare utter no complaint. 
Truly Erostratus and Schinderhannes are celebrated, and 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 139 


Eulenspiegle is better known and beloved by the people than 
Socrates.” 

“This proves that Wisdom herself must take the trouble 
to make herself popular,” said Rothenberg. “True fame is 
only obtained by popularity. Alexander the Great and 
Ceesar were popular, and their names were therefore in the 
mouths of the people. This was their inheritance, handed 
down from generation to generation, from father to son. 
So will it be with King Frederick the Second. He is not 
only the king and the hero, but he is the man of the people. 
His fame will not be written alone on the tablets of history 
by the Muses; the people will write it on the pure, white, 
vacant leaves of their Bibles; the children and grandchildren 
will read it; and, centuries hence, the curious searchers into 
history will consider this as fame, and exalt the name of 
Frederick the Great.” 

“God grant it may be so!” said the king solemnly. 
“You know that I am ambitious. I believe that this pas- 
sion is the most enduring, and that its burning thirst is 
never quenched. As crown prince, I was ever humiliated by 
the thought that the love, consideration, and respect shown 
to me was no tribute to my worth, but was offered to a 
prince, the son of a powerful king. With what admiration, 
with what enthusiasm did I look at Voltaire! he needed no 
high birth, no title, to be considered, honored, and envied by 
the whole world. I, however, must have rank, title, princely 
revenues, and a royal genealogical tree,in order to fix the eyes 
of men upon me. Ah, how often did I remind myself of the 
history of that great prince, who, surrounded by his enemies, 
and about to surrender, saw his servants and friends despair- 
ing and weeping around him! He smiled upon them, and 
uttered these few but expressive words: ‘I feel by your tears 
that I am still a king.’ I swore then to be like that noble 
man, to owe my fame, not to my royal mantle, but to my- 
self. I have fulfilled but a small portion of my oath. I hope 
that my godmother, Maria Theresa, and the Russian empress, 
will soon afford me more enlarged opportunities. Our 
enemies are indeed our best friends; they enrage and in- 
spire us.” 

“Tn so saying, sire, you condemn us all, we who are the 


140 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


most faithful, submissive, and enthusiastic friends of your 
highness.” 

“You are also useful to me,” said the king. “ You, for 
example, your cheerful, loving face does me good whenever 
I look upon it. You keep my heart young and fresh, and 
teach me to laugh, which pleasant art I am constantly for- 
getting in the midst of these wearisome and hypocritical 
men. I never laugh so merrily as when I am with you at 
your table, where I have the high privilege of laying aside 
my royalty, and being a simple, happy man like yourself. 
I rejoice in the prospect of this evening, and I am impatient 
as a young maiden before her first ball. This evening, if I 
remember correctly, I am invited by General von Rothenberg 
to a petit souper.” 

“Your majesty was kind enough to promise ine that you 
would come.” 

“Do you know, Rothenberg, I really believe that the ex- 
pectation of this féte has made the hours of the day so long 
and wearisome. Now, tell me, who are we to have? who 
takes part in our gayety?” 

“Those who were selected by your majesty: Chazot and 
Algarotti, Jordan and Bielfeld.” 

“Did I select the company?” said the king, thought- 
fully; “then I wonder that—”’ He stopped, and, looking 
<lown, turned away silently. 

“What causes your majesty’s wonder?” said the gen- 
eral. 

“T am surprised that I did not ask you to give us Rhine 
wine this evening,” said the king, with a sly smile. 

“ Rhine wine! why, your majesty has often told me that 
ft was a slow poison, and produced death.” 

“Yes, that is true, but what will you have? There are 
many things in this incomprehensible world which are 
poisonous, and which, for that reason, are the more alluring. 
This is peculiarly so with women. He does well who avoids 
them; they bewilder our reason and make our hearts sick, 
but we do not flee from them. We pursue them, and the 
poison which they infuse in our veins is sweet; we quaff it 
rapturously, though death is in the cup.” 

“In this, however, your majesty is wiser than all other 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 141 


men: you alone have the power to turn away from or with- 
stand them.” 

“ Who knows? perhaps that is sheer cowardice,” said the 
king; he turned away confused, and beat with his fingers 
upon the window-glass. “I called the Rhine wine poison, 
because of its strength. I think now that it alone deserves 
to be called wine—it is the only wine which has: bloom.” 
Frederick was again silent, and beat a march upon the 
window. 

The general looked at him anxiously and thoughtfully; 
suddenly his countenance cleared, and a half-suppressed 
smile played upon his lips. 

“T will allow myself to add a conclusive word to those of 
my king, that is, a moral to his fable. Your majesty says 
Rhine wine is the only wine which deserves the name, be- 
eause it alone has bloom. So I will call that society only so- 
ciety which is graced and adorned by women. Women are 
the bloom of society. Do you not agree with me, sire?” 

“Tf I agree to that proposition, it amounts to a request 
that you will invite women to our féte this evening—will it 
not?” said the king, still thrumming on the window. 

“ And with what rapture would I fulfil your wish, but I 
fear it would be difficult to induce the ladies to come to the 
house of a young bachelor as I am!” 

“Ah, bah! I have determined during the next winter to 
give these little suppers very often. I will have a private 
table, and women shall be present.” 

“Yes, but your majesty is married.” 

“They would come if I were a bachelor. The Countess 
Carnas, Frau von Brandt, the Kleist, and the Morien, are 
too witty and too intellectual to be restrained by narrow- 
minded prejudice.” 

“Does your majesty wish that I should invite these 
ladies?” said the general; “they will come, without doubt, 
if your majesty commands it. Shall I invite them?” 

The king hesitated a moment to reply. “ Perhaps they 
would not come willingly,” said he; “you are unmarried, 
and they might be afraid of their husbands’ anger.” 

“T must, then, invite ladies who are not married,” said 
Rothenberg, whose face was now radiant with delight; “but 


142 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


I do not know one unmarried lady of the higher circles who 
carries her freedom from prejudice so far as to dare attend a 
bachelor’s supper.” 

“Must we always confine our invitations to the higher 
circles?” said the king, beating his parade march still more 
violently upon the window. 

Rothenberg watched him with the eye of a sportsman, 
who sees the wild deer brought to bay. 

“Tf your majesty will condescend to set etiquette aside, I 
will make a proposition.” 

“Etiquette is nonsense and folly, and shall not do the 
honors by our petits soupers; pleasure only presides.” 

“Then I propose that we invite some of the ladies from 
the theatre—is your majesty content?” 

“Fully! but which of the ladies?” said the king. 

“That is your majesty’s affair,” said Rothenberg, smiling. 
“You have selected the gentlemen, will it please you to name 
the ladies?” 

“Well, then,” said the king, hesitating, “ what say you 
to Cochois, Astrea, and the little Petrea?” 

* Sire, they will be all most welcome; but I pray you to 
allow me to add one name to your list, the name of a woman 
who is more lovely, more gracious, more intellectual, more 
alluring, than all the prima donnas of the world; who has 
the power to intoxicate all men, not excepting emperors and 
kings, and make them her willing slaves. Dare I name her, 
sire?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“The Signora Barbarina.” 

The king turned his head hastily, and his burning eyes 
rested questioningly upon the face of Rothenberg, who met 
his glance with a merry look. 

Frederick was silent; and the general, making a pro- 
found bow, said solemnly: “I pray your majesty to allow me 
to invite Mesdames Cochois, Astrea, and Petrea, also the 
Signora Barbarina, to our petit souper.” 

“Four prima donnas at once!” said the king, laughing; 
“that would be dangerous; we would, perhaps, have the in- 
teresting spectacle of seeing them tear out each other’s eyes. 
No, no! to enjoy the glories of the sun, there must be no 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 143 


rival suns in the horizon; we will invite but one enchant- 
ress, and as you are the host, you have the undoubted 
right to select her. Let it be then the Signora Barba- 
rina.” * 

“Your majesty graciously permits me to invite the Sig- 
nora Barbarina?” said Rothenberg, looking the king stead- 
ily in the face; a rich blush suffused the cheeks of Frederick. 
Suddenly he laughed aloud, and laying his arm around the 
neck of his friend, he looked in his radiant face with an ex- 
pression of confidence and love. 

“You are a provoking scamp,” said Frederick. “ You 
understood me from the beginning, and left me hanging, like 
Absalom, upon the tree. That was cruel, Rothenberg.” 

“Cruel, but well deserved, sire. Why would you not 
make known your wishes clearly? Why leave me to guess 
them?” 

“Why? My God! it is sometimes so agreeable and con- 
venient to have your wishes guessed. The murder is out. 
You will invite the beautiful Barbarina. You can also in- 
vite another gentleman, an artist, in order that the lovely 
Italian may not feel so lonely amongst us barbarians.” 

“What artist, sire?” 

“The painter Pesne; go yourself to invite him. It 
might be well for him to bring paper and pencil—he will 
assuredly have an irresistible desire to make a sketch of this 
beautiful nymph.” 

“ Command him to do so, sire, and then to make a life- 
size picture from the sketch.” 

“ Ah! so you wish a portrait of the Barbarina?” 

“Yes, sire; but not for myself.” 

“For whom, then?” 

“To have the pleasure of presenting it to my king.” 

* And why?” 

“ Because I am vain enough to believe that, as my pres- 
ent, the picture would have some value in your eyes,” said 
Rothenberg, mockingly. “ What cares my king for a por- 
trait of the Barbarina? Nothing, sans doute. But when 
this picture is not only painted by the great Pesne, but is 
also the gift of a dear, faithful friend, I wager it will be 

* Rodenbeck : “ Journal of Frederick the Great.” 


144 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


highly appreciated by your majesty, and you will perhaps be 
gracious enough to hang it in your room.” 

“You! you!” said the king, pointing his finger threat- 
eningly at Rothenberg, “I am afraid of you. I believe you 
listen to and comprehend my most secret thoughts, and form 
your petition according to my wishes. I will, like a good- 
natured, easy fool, grant this request. Go and invite the 
Barbarina and the painter Pesne, and commission him to 
paint a life-size picture of the fair one.* Pesne must have 
several sketches, and I will choose from amongst them.” 

“T thank your majesty,” cried the general; “and now 
have the goodness to dismiss me—I must make my prepara- 
tions.” 

As Rothenberg stood upon the threshold, the king called 
him. “You have guessed my thoughts, and now I will 
prove to you that I read yours. You think I am in love.” 

“Tn love? What! I dare to think that?” said the gen- 
eral; and folding his hands he raised his eyes as if in prayer. 
“Shall I dare to have such an unholy thought in connection 
with my anointed king?” 

The king laughed heartily. “ As to my sanctity, I think 
the holy Antonius will not proclaim me as his brother. But 
I am not exactly in love.” He stepped to the window, upon 
the sill of which a Japanese rose stood in rich bloom; he 
plucked one of the lovely flowers, and handing it to the gen- 
eral, he said: “ Look, now! is it not enchantingly beauti- 
ful? Think you, that because I am a king, I have no heart, 
no thirst for beauty? Go! but remember that, though a 
king, I have the eyes and the passions of other men. I, too, 
am intoxicated by the perfume of flowers and the beauty of 
women.” 


* This splendid picture of Barbarina hung for a long time in the king’a 
cabinet, and is still to be seen in the Royal Palace at Berlin. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 145 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE FIRST RENDEZVOUS. 


THE night was dark and still; so dark in the garden of 
Monbijou, that the keenest eye could not detect the forms of 
the two men who slipped stealthily among the trees; so still, 
that the slightest contact of their clothing with the motion- 
less leaves, and the slightest footstep in the sand could be 
heard. But, happily, there was none to listen; unchallenged 
and unseen, the two mufiled figures entered the avenue, at 
the end of which stood the little palace, the summer resi- 
dence of the queen-mother. Here they rested for a moment, 
and cast a searching glance at the building, which stood 
also dark and silent before them. — 

“No light in the windows of the queen-mother,” whis- 
pered one; “all asleep.” 

“Yes, all asleep, we have nothing to fear; let us go on- 
ward.” The last speaker made a few hasty steps forward, 
but his companion seized him hastily by the arm, and held 
him back. 

“You forget, my young Hotspur, that we must wait for 
the signal. Still! still! do not stamp so impatiently with 
your feet; you need not shake yourself like a young lion. 
He who goes upon such adventures must, above all things, 
be self-possessed, cautious, and cool. Believe me, I have had 
a long range of experience, and in this species of love ad- 
venture I think I might possibly rival the famous King 
Charles the Second, of England.” 

“But here there is no question of love adventure, Baron 
Pollnitz,” said his companion impatiently, almost fiercely. 

“Not of love adventure, Baron Trenck! well, may I dare 
to ask what is the question?” 

“ A true—an eternal love!” 

“ Ah! a true, an eternal love,” repeated Péllnitz, with a 
dry, mocking laugh. “ All honor to this true love, which, 
with all the reasons for its justification, and all the pathos 
of its heavenly source, glides stealthily to the royal palace, 
and hides itself under the shadow of the silent night. My 


146 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


good young sentimentalist, remember I am not a novice like 
yourself; I am an old fogy, and call things by their right 
names. Every passion is a true and eternal love, and every 
loved one is an angel of virtue, beauty, and purity, until we 
weary of the adventure, and seek a new distraction.” 

“You are a hopeless infidel,” said Trenck, angrily; 
“truly he who has changed his faith as often as you have, 
has no religion—not even the religion of love. But look! 
a light is shown, and the window is opened; that is the 
signal.” 

“ You are right, that is the signal. Let us go,” whispered . 
Péllnitz; and he stepped hastily after the young officer. 

And now they stood before the window on the ground 
floor, where the light had been seen for a moment. The 
window was half open. 

“We have arrived,” said Trenck, breathing heavily; 
“now, dear Péllnitz, farewell; it cannot certainly be your in- 
tention to go farther. The princess commissioned you to 
accompany me to the castle, but she did not intend you 
should enter with me. You must understand this. You 
boast that you are rich in experience, and will therefore 
readily comprehend that the presence of a third party is ab- 
horrent to lovers. I know that you are too amiable to make 
your friends wretched. Farewell, Baron Péllnitz.” 

Trenck was in the act of springing into the window, but 
the strong arm of the master of ceremonies held him back. 

“ Let me enter first,” said he, “and give me a little as- 
sistance. Your sophistical exposition of the words of our 
princess is entirely thrown away. She said to me, ‘ At eleven 
o’clock I will expect you and the Baron von Trenck in my 
room. That is certainly explicit—as it appears to me, and 
needs no explanation. Lend me your arm.” 

With a heavy sigh, Trenck gave the required assistance, 
and then sprang lightly into the room. 

“Give me your hand, and follow cautiously,” said Péll- 
nitz. “I know every step of the way, and can guard you 
against all possible accidents. I have tried this path often 
in former years, particularly when Peter the Great and his 
wife, with twenty ladies of her suite, occupied this wing of 
the castle.” 


——~s i i ts ee i i, ee 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 147 


“ Hush!” said Trenck; “we have reached the top—on- 
ward, silently.” 

“ Give me your hand, I will lead you.” 

Carefully, silently, and on tip-toe, they passed through 
the dark corridor, and reached the door, through which a 
light shimmered. They tapped lightly upon the door, 
which was immediately opened. The confidential chamber- 
maid of the princess came forward to meet them, and 
nodded to them silently to follow her; they passed through 
several rooms; at last she paused, and said, earnestly: 
“This is the boudoir of the princess; enter—you are ex- 
pected.” 

With a hasty movement, Trenck opened the door—this 
door which separated him from his first love, his only hope 
of happiness. He entered that dimly-lighted room, toward 
which his weary, longing eyes had been often turned almost 
hopelessly. His heart beat stormily, his breathing was ir- 
regular, he thought he might die of rapture; he feared that 
in the wild agitation of the moment he might utter a cry, 
indicative as much of suffering as of joy. 

There, upon the divan, sat the Princess Amelia. The 
hanging lamp lighted her face, which was fair and colorless. 
She tried to rise and advance to meet him, but she had no 
power; she extended both her hands, and murmured a few 
unintelligible words. 

Frederick von Trenck’s heart read her meaning; he 
rushed forward and covered her hands with his kisses and his 
tears; he fell upon his knees, and murmured words of rap- 
ture, of glowing thanks, of blessed joy—words which filled 
the trembling heart of Amelia with delight. 

All this fell upon the cold but listening ears of the master 
of ceremonies, and seemed to him as sounding brass and the 
tinkling cymbal. -He had discreetly and modestly withdrawn 
to the back part of the room; but he looked on like a world- 
ling, with a mocking smile at the rapture of the two lovers. 
He soon found, however, that the réle which he was con- 
demned to play had its ridiculous and humiliating aspect, 
and he resolved to bear it no longer. He came forward, and 
with his usual cool impertinence he approached the princess, 
who greeted him with a crimson blush and a silent bow. 

10 : 


148 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“Pardon me, your royal highness, if I dare to ask you 
to decide a question which has arisen between my friend 
Trenck and myself. He did not wish to allow me to ac- 
company him farther than the castle window. I declared 
that I was authorized by your royal highness to enter with 
him this holiest of holies. Perhaps, however, I was in error, 
and have carried my zeal in your service too far. I pray 
you, therefore, to decide. Shall I go or stay?” 

The princess had by this time entirely recovered her 
composure. “ Remain,” said she, with a ravishing smile, 
and giving her hand to the baron. “ You were our confi- 
dant from the beginning, and I desire you to be wholly so. 
I wish you to be fully convinced that our love, though com- 
pelled for a while to seek darkness and obscurity, need not 
shun the eye of a friend. And who knows if we may not 
one day need your testimony? I do not deceive myself. I 
know that this night my good and evil genius are struggling 
over my future—that misfortune and shame have already 
perhaps stretched their wings over my head; but I will not 
yield to them without a struggle. It may be that one day 
J shall require your aid. Remain, therefore.” 

Péllnitz bowed silently. The princess fixed her glance 
upon her lover, who, with a clouded brow and sad mien, stood 
near. She understood him, and a smile played upon her full, 
red lip. 

“Remain, Von Péllnitz, but allow us to step for a mo- 
ment upon the balcony. It is a wondrous night. What we 
two have to say to each other, only heaven, with its shining 
stars, dare hear; I believe they only can understand our 
speech.” 

~ “T thank you! oh, I thank you!” whispered Trenck, 
pressing the hand of Amelia to his lips. 

“Your royal highness, then, graciously allowed me to 
come here,” said Péllnitz, with a complaining voice, “in 
order to give me up entirely to my own thoughts, and force 
me to play the part of a Trappist. I shall, if I understand 
rightly my privileges, like the lion in the fairy tale, guard 
the door of that paradise in which my young friend revels 
in his first sunny dream of bliss. Your royal highness must 
confess that this is cruel work; but I am ready to undertake 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 149 


it, and place myself, like the angel with the flaming sword, 
before the door, ready to slay any serpent who dares under- 
take to enter this elysium.” 

The princess pointed to a table upon which game, fruit, 
and Spanish wine had been placed. “You will find there 
distraction and perhaps consolation, and I hope you will avail 
yourself of it. Farewell, baron; we place ourselves under 
your protection; guard us well.” She opened the door and 
stepped with her lover upon the balcony. 

Péllnitz looked after them contemptuously. “ Poor 
child! she is afraid of herself; she requires a duenna, and 
that she should have chosen exactly me for that purpose was 
a wonderful idea. Alas! my case is indeed pitiful; I am 
selected to play the part of a duenna. No one remembers 
that I have ears to hear and teeth to bite. I am supposed to 
see, nothing more. But what shall I see, what can I see in 
this dark night, which the god of love has so clouded over 
in compassion to this innocent and tender pair of doves? 
This was a rich, a truly romantic and girlish idea to grant 
her lover a rendezvous, it is true, under God’s free heaven, 
but upon a balcony of three feet in length, with no seat to 
repose upon after the powerful emotions of a burning 
declaration of love. Well, for my part I find it more com- 
fortable to rest upon this divan and enjoy my evening meal, 
while these two dreamers commune with the night-birds and 
the stars.” 

He threw himself upon the seat, seized his knife and 
fork, and indulged himself in the grouse and truffles which 
had been prepared for him. 


CHAPTER VIL. 


ON THE BALCONY. 


WITHOUT, upon the balcony, stood the two lovers. With 
their arms clasped around each other, they gazed up at the 
dark heavens—too deeply moved for utterance. They spoke 


150 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


to each other in the exalted language of lovers (under- . 
stood only by the angels), whose words are blushes, sighs,’ 


glances, and tender pressures of the hand. 

In the beginning this was their only language. Both 
shrank from interrupting this sweet communion of souls by 
earthly material speech. Suddenly their glances fell from 
heaven earthward. They sought another heaven, and other 
and dearer stars. Their eyes, accustomed to the darkness, 
met; their blushes and their happy smiles, though not seen, 
were understood and felt, and at the same moment they soft- 
ly called each other’s names. 

This was their first language, soon succeeded by passion- 
ate and glowing protestations on his part; by blushing, trem- 
bling confessions on hers. They spoke and looked like alk 
the millions of lovers who have found themselves alone in 
this old world of ours. The same old story, yet ever new. 

The conduct, hopes, and fears of these young lovers could 
not be judged by common rules. Theirs was a love which 
could not hope for happiness or continuance; for which 
there was no perfumed oasis, no blooming myrtle-wreath to 
crown its dark and stormy path. They might be sure that 
the farther they advanced, the more trackless and arid would 
be the desert opening before them. Tears and robes of 
mourning would constitute their festal adorning. 

“Why has Destiny placed you so high above me that I 
cannot hope to reach you? can never climb the ladder which 
leads to heaven and to happiness?” said Trenck, as he knelt 
before the princess. 

She played thoughtfully with his long dark hair, and a 
burning tear rolled slowly over her cheek and fell upon his 
brow. That was her only answer. 

Trenck shuddered. He dashed the tear from his face 
with trembling horror. “Oh, Amelia! you weep; you have 
no word of consolation, of encouragement, of hope for me?” 

“No word, my friend; I have no hope, no consolation. 
I know that a dark and stormy future awaits us. I know 
that this cloudy night, under whose shadow we for the first 
time join our hands will endure forever; that for us the 
sun will never shine. I know that the moment our glances 
first met, my protecting angel veiled her face and, weeping, 


———. La 





eS a Ee Oe 


ee ee a 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 151 


left me. I know that it would have been wiser and better 
to give your heart, with its treasures, to a poor beggar-girl 
on the street, than to consecrate it to the sister of a king— 
to the poor Princess Amelia.” 

“Stop, stop!” cried Trenck, still on his knees, and bow- 
ing his head almost to the earth. “ Your words pierce my 
heart like poisoned daggers, and yet I feel that they are 
truth itself. Yes, I was indeed a bold traitor, in that I 
dared to raise my eyes to you; I was a blasphemer, in that I, 
the unconsecrated, forced myself into the holy temple of 
your heart; upon its altar the vestal flame of your pure and 
innocent thoughts burned clearly, until my hot and stormy 
sighs brought unrest and wild disorder. But I repent. 
There is yet time. You are bound to me by no vow, no 
solemn oath. Oh, Amelia! lay this scarcely-opened flower 
of our first young love by the withered violet-wreaths of 
your childhood, with which even now you sometimes play 
and smile upon in quiet and peaceful hours; to which you 
whisper: ‘ You were once beautiful and fragrant; you made 
me happy—but that is past.’ Oh, Amelia! yet is there time; 
give me up; spurn me from you. Call your servants and 
point me out to them as a madman, who has dared to glide 
into your room; whose passion has made him blind and wild. 
Give me over to justice and to the scaffold. Only save your- 
self from my love, which is so cowardly, so egotistic, so hard- 
hearted; it has no strength in itself to choose banishment or 
death. Oh, Amelia! cast me away from your presence; 
trample me under your feet. I will die without one re- 
proach, without one complaint. I will think that my death 
Was necessary to save you from shame, from the torture of 
a long and dreary existence. All this is still in your power. 
I have no claim upon you; you are not mine; you have lis- 
tened to my oaths, but you have not replied to them; you are 
free. Spurn me, then, you are bound by no vow.” 

Amelia raised her arm slowly and solemnly toward 
heaven. “I love you! May God hear me and accept my 
oath! I love you, and I swear to be yours; to be true and 
faithful; never to wed any other man!” 

“Oh, most unhappy woman! oh, greatly to be pitied!” 
eried Trenck. Throwing his arms around her neck he laid 


152 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


his head upon her bosom. “ Amelia, Amelia! these are not 
tears of rapture, of bliss. I weep from wretchedness, from 
anguish, for your dear sake. Ah, no! I will not accept your 
oath. I have not heard your words—those heavenly words 
which would have filled my heart with light and gladness, 
had they not contained your fatal condemnation. Oh, my 
beloved! you swear that you love me? That is, to sacrifice 
all the high privileges of your rank; the power and splendor 
which would surround a husband of equal birth—a throne, 
a royal crown. Beware! when I once accept your love, then 
you are mine; then I will never release you; not to the king 
—not even to God. You will be mine through all time and 
all eternity; nothing shall tear you from my arms, not 
even your own wish, your own prayers. Oh, Amelia! do 
you see that I am a madman, insane from rapture and de- 
spair! Should you not flee from a maniac? Perhaps his 
arm, imbued with giant strength, seeking to hold you ever 


to his heart, might crush you. Fly, then; spurn me from 


you; go to your room; go, and say to this mocking courtier, 
to whom nothing is holy, not even our love, who is surprised, 
at nothing—go and say to him: ‘Trenck was a madman; 
I summoned him for pity; I hoped by mildness and forbear- 
ance to heal him. I have succeeded; he is gone. Go, now, 
and watch over your friend.’ I will not contradict your 
words; so soon as you cross the threshold of the door, I will 
spring from the balcony. I will be careful; I will not stum- 
ble; I will not dash my head against the stones; I will not 
be found dead under your window; no trace of blood shall 
mark my desperate path. My wounds are fatal, but they 
shall bleed inwardly; only upon the battle-field will I lie 
down to die. Amid the roar of cannon I shall not be heard; 
I dare call your name with the last sigh which bursts from 
my icy lips; my last words of love will mingle with the con- 
vulsive groans of the dying. Flee, then! flee from wretch- 
edness and despair. May God bless you and make you 
happy!” 

Trenck drew aside reverentially, that she might pass him; 
but she moved not—her eyes were misty with tears, tears of 
love, of heavenly peace. Amelia laid her soft hand upon 
his shoulder. Her eyes, which were fixed upon his face, 


ee — 








FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 153 


had a wondrous glow. Love and high resolve were written 
there. “Two of the brightest stars in yonder heavens did 
wander in our sphere.” Trenck looked upon her, and saw 
and felt that we are indeed made in the image of God. 

“T seek no safety in flight. I remain by your side; I 
love you, I love you! This is no trembling, sighing, blush- 
ing, sentimental love of a young maiden. I offer you the. 
love of a bold, proud woman, who’looks shame and death in 
the face. In the fire of my anguish, my love has become 
purified and hardened; in this flame it has forgotten its 
girlish blushes, and is unbending and unconquerable. I 
have baptized it with my tears; I have taken it to my heart, 
as a mother takes her new-born child whose existence is her 
condemnation, her dishonor, her shame; whom she loves 
boundlessly, and blesses even while weeping over it! I also 
weep, and I feel that condemnation and shame are my por- 
tion. I also bless my love; I think myself happy and en- 
viable. God has blessed me; He has sent one pure, burn- 
ing ray of His celestial existence into my heart, and taught 
me how to love unchangeably, immortally.” 

“Oh, Amelia, why cannot I die now?” cried Trenck, fall- 
ing powerless at her feet. 

She stooped and raised him up with a strong hand. 
“Rise,” she said; “we must stand erect, side by side, firm 
and cool. When you kneel before me, I fear that you see 
in me a princess, the sister of a king. I am simply your be- 
loved, the woman who adores you. Look you, Trenck, I 
do not say ‘the young girl;’ in my interior life I am no 
longer that. This fearful battle with myself has made me 
old and cautious. A young girl is trembling and cowardly. 
I am firm and brave; a young girl blushes when she con- 
fesses her love; I do not confess, I declare and glory in my 
passion. A young girl shudders when she thinks of dishonor 
and misery, of the power and rage and menaces of her fam- 
ily; when with prophetic eye she sees a herald clad in mourn- 
ing announcing her dark fate. I shudder not. I am no 
weak maiden; I am a woman who loves without limit, un- 
changeably, eternally.” 

She threw her arms around him, and a long and blessed 
pause ensued. Lightly whispered the wind in the tops of the 


154 _ BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCT; OR, 


lofty poplars and oaks of the garden; unnumbered stars 
came out in their soft splendor and looked down upon this 
slumbering world. Many slept, forgetful alike of their joys 
and their griefs; some, rejoicing in unhoped-for happiness, 
looked up with grateful and loving hearts; others, with con- 
vulsive wringings of the hands and wild cries of anguish, 
called upon Heaven for aid. What know the stars of this? 
they flash and glimmer alike upon the happy and the de- 
spairing. ‘The earth and sky have no tears, no sympathy for 
earthly passions. Amelia released herself from the arms 
of her lover and fixed her eyes upon the heavens. Suddenly 
a star fell, marking its downward and rapid flight with a line 
of silver; in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, it was 
extinguished. 

“ An evil omen!” cried she, pointing upward. With a 
mysterious sympathy, Trenck had looked up at the same mo- 
ment. 

“The heavens will not deceive us, Amelia; they warn us, 
but this warning comes too late. You are mine, you have 
sworn that you love me; I have accepted your vows. May 
God also have heard them, and may He be gracious to us! 
Is it not written that Faith can remove mountains? that she 
is more powerful than the mightiest kings of the earth; 
stronger than death—that conquerors and heroes fall before 
her? Let us, then, have faith in our love; let us be strong 
in hope, in patience, in constancy.” 

“My brother says we shall soon have war. Will you not 
win a wreath of laurel upon the battle-field? who can know 
but the king may value it as highly, may consider it as 
glorious, as a princely crown? All my sisters are married to 
princes; perhaps my royal brother may pardon me for loving 
a hero whose brow is bound bya laurel-wreath alone.” 

“Swear to me, Amelia, to wait—to be patient, to give me 
time to reach this goal, which you paint in such heavenly 
colors.” ! 

“T swear!” 

“ You will never be the wife of another?” 

“‘T will never be the wife of another.” 

“Be it prince or king; even if your brother com- 
mands it?” 





— 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 155 


“Be it prince or king; even if my brother commands it, 
I will never obey him.” 

“ God, my God! you have heard our vows.” While speak- 
ing, he took Amelia’s head in his hands softly and bowed it 
down as if it were a holy sacrifice which he offered up to 
Heaven. “ You have heard her oath: O God, punish her, 
crush her in your wrath, if she prove false! ” 

“T will be faithful to the end. May God punish me if I 
fail!” 

“ And now, beloved, you are mine eternally. Let me 
press our betrothal kiss upon your sweet lips; you are my 
bride, my wife. Tremble not now, turn not away from my 
arms; you have no other refuge, no other strong fortress 
than my heart, but it is a rock on which you can safely build; 
its foundation is strong, it can hold and sustain you. If 
the storm is too fierce, we can plunge together into the 
wild, raging sea, and be buried in the deep. Oh, my bride, 
let me kiss your lips; you are sanctified and holy in my 
eyes till the glorious day in which life or death shall unite 
us.” 

“ No, you shall not kiss me; I embrace you, my beloved,” 
and she pressed her soft full lips, which no untruthful, im- 
modest word had ever desecrated, to his. It was a kiss holy, 
innocent, and pure as a maiden’s prayer. “ And now, my be- 
loved, farewell,” said Amelia, aftor a long pause, in which 
their lips had been silent, but their hearts had spoken to 
each other and to God. “Go,” she said; “night melts into 
morn, the day breaks! ” 

“My day declines, my night comes on apace,” sighed 
Trenck. “ When do we meet agzin?” 

Amelia looked up, smilingly, to the heavens. “ Ask the 
stars and the calendar when the heavens are dark, and the 
moon hides her fair face; then I expect you—the window 
will be open and the door unbarred.” 

_ “The moon has ever been thought to be the friend of 
lovers,” said Trenck, pressing the hand of the prineess to his 


-heart; “but I hate her with a perfect hatred, she robs me of 


my happiness.” 
“ And now, let us return to Baron Péllnitz, who is, with- 
out doubt, impatient.” 


156 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“Why must he always accompany me, Amelia? why will 
you not allow me to come alone?” 

“Why? I scarcely know myself. It seems to me we are 
safer when watched over by the eye of a friend; perhaps I 
am unduly anxious; a warning voice whispers me that it is 
better so. Pollnitz has become the confidant of our love, 
let us trust him fully; let him know that, though traitors 
and meriting punishment in the sight of men, we are not 
guilty in the sight of God, and have no cause to blush or 
look down. Pollnitz must always accompany you.” 

“ Ah, Amelia!” sighed Trenck; “ you have not forgotten 
that you are a princess. Love has not wholly conquered 
you. You command. It is not so with me. I submit, I 
obey, and I am silent. Be it as you will: Péllnitz shall al- 
ways accompany me—only promise me to come ever upon the 
balcony.” 

“T promise! and now, beloved, let us say farewell to God, 
to the heavens, to the soft stars, and the dark night, which 
has spread her mantle over us and allowed us to be happy.” 

“Farewell, farewell, my happiness, my love, my pride, 
my hope, my future! Oh, Amelia, why cannot I go this 
moment into battle, and pluck high honors which will make 
me more worthy of you?” 

They embraced for the last time, and then stepped into 
the room. Pdollnitz still sat on the divan before the table. 
Only a poor remnant of the feast remained; his tongue had 
been forced to silence in this lonely room, but he had been 
agreeably occupied with the game, fruits, jellies, and wine 
which were placed before him; he had stretched himself 
comfortably upon the sofa, and was quietly enjoying the 
blessed feeling of a healthy and undisturbed digestion. At 
last he had fallen asleep, or seemed so; it was some mo- 
ments before Trenck succeeded in forcing him to open his 
eyes. 

“You are very cruel, young friend,” said he, rising up; 
“you have disturbed me in the midst of a wondrous and 
rapturous dream.” 

“ Might I inquire into this dream?” said the princess. 

“ Ah, your royal highness, I dreamed of the only thing 
which would ever surprise or enrapture me in this comical 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 157 


and good-for-nothing world. I dreamed I had no creditors, 
and heaps of gold.” 

“ And your dream differs widely from the reality?” 

“Yes, my gracious princess, just the opposite is true. I 
have unnumbered creditors, and no gold.” 

“ Poor Péllnitz! how do you propose to free yourself from 
this painful embarrassment?” 

“ Ah, your royal highness, I shall never attempt it! I 
am more than content when I can find some soothing pallia- 
tives for this chronic disease, and, at least, find as many 
louis d’ors in my pocket as I have creditors to threaten me.” 

“ And is that now your happy state?” 

“No, princess, I have only twelve louis d’ors.” 

“ And how many creditors?” 

“ Two-and-thirty.” 

“So twenty louis d’ors are wanting to satisfy your long- 
ing? ” 

“Yes, unhappily.” 

The princess walked to her table and took from it a little 
roll of gold, which she handed to the master of ceremonies. 
“Take it,” said she, smiling; “ yesterday I received my pin- 
money for the month, and I rejoice that I am in a condition 
to balance your creditors and your louis d’ors at this time.” 

Péllnitz took the gold without a blush, and kissed the 
hand of the princess gallantly. “ Ah! I have but one cause 
of repentance,” sighed he. 

“Well, what is that?” 

“That I did not greatly increase the number of my cred- 
itors. My God! who could have guessed the magnanimous 
intentions of my royal princess?” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE FIRST CLOUD. 


DRUNK with happiness, revelling in the recollection of 
this first interview with his lovely and exalted mistress, 


158 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Frederick von Trenck rode slowly through the lonely high- 
ways toward Potsdam. It was not necessary for him to pay 
any attention to the road, as his horse knew every foot of 
the way. Trenck laid his bridle carelessly upon the neck of 
the noble animal, and gave himself up entirely to meditation. 
Suddenly night waned, the vapors melted, light appeared in 
the east, and the first purple glow was succeeded by a clear, 
soft blue. The larks sang out their joyous morning song 
in the heavens, not yet disturbed by the noise and dust of 
the day. 

Treneck heard not the song of the lark, he saw not the 
rising sun, which, with his golden rays, illuminated the 
landscape, and changed the dew-drops in the cups of the 
flowers into shimmering diamonds and rubies; he was 
dreaming, dreaming. The sweet and wondrous happiness 
of the last few hours intoxicated his soul; he recalled every 
word, every smile, every pressure of the hand of his beloved, 
and a crimson blush suffused his cheek, a sweet tremor op- 
pressed his heart, as he remembered that she had been 
clasped in his arms; that he had kissed the pure, soft, girl- 
ish lips, whose breath was fresher and more odorous than 
the glorious morning air which fanned his cheeks and played 
with his long dark hair. With a radiant smile and proudly 
erected head, he recalled the promise of the princess. She 
had given him reason to hope; she believed in the possibility 
of their union. 

And why, indeed, might not this be possible? Had not 
his career in the last few months been so brilliant as to excite 
the envy of his comrades? was he not recognized as the 
special favorite of the king? Scarcely six months had 
passed since he arrived in Berlin; a young, poor, and un- 
known student, he was commended to the king by his pro- 
tector, the Count von Lottum, who earnestly petitioned his 
majesty to receive him into his life-guard. The king, 
charmed by his handsome and martial figure, by his culti- 
vated intellect and wonderful memory, had made him cornet 
in his cavalry guard, and a few weeks later he was promoted 
to a lieutenancy. Though but eighteen years of age, he had 
the distinguished honor to be chosen by the king to exercise 
two regiments of Silesian cavalry, and Frederick himself had 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 159 


expressed his content, not only in gracious but affectionate 
words.* It is well known that the smile of a prince is like 
the golden rays of the sun: it lends light and glory to every 
abject upon which it rests, and attracts the curious gaze of 
men. 

The handsome young lieutenant, basking in the rays of 
royal favor, was naturally an object of remark and the most 
distinguished attentions to the circle of the court. More 
than once the king had been seen to lay his arm confidingly 
upon the shoulder of Trenck, and converse with him long 
and smilingly; more than once had the proud and almost 
unapproachable queen-mother accorded the young officer a 
gracious salutation; more than once had the princesses at 
the fétes of the last winter selected him as their partner, 
and all those young and lovely girls of the court declared 
that there was no better dancer, no more attentive cavalier, 
no more agreeable companion than Frederick’ von Trenck 
—than this youthful, witty, merry officer, who surpassed 
all his comrades, not only in his height and the splendor 
of his form, but in talent and amiability. It was there- 
fore to be expected that this proud aristocracy would seek 
to draw the favorite of the king and of the ladies into their 
circle. 

Frederick von Trenck was of too sound and healthy a 
nature, he had too much strength of character, to be made 
vain or supercilious by these attentions. He soon, however, 
accustomed himself to them as his right; and he was scarce- 
ly surprised when the king, ‘after his promotion, sent him two 
splendid horses from his own stable, and a thousand thalers, t 
at that time a considerable sum of money. 

This general adulation inspired naturally bold wishes and 
ambitious dreams, and led him to look upon the impossible 
and unheard of as possible and attainable. Frederick von 
Trenck was not vain or imperious, but he was proud and 
ambitious; he had a great object in view, and all his powers 
were consecrated to that end; in his hopeful, sunny hours, 
he did not doubt of success; he was ever diligent, ever watch- 


* “ Mémoires de Frédéric Baron von Trenck,” traduits par lui-méme sur 
ss > ggaenaya 
i 


160 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


ful, ever ready to embrace an opportunity; ever expecting 
some giant work, which would, in its fruition, bring him 
riches and honor, fame and greatness. He felt that he had 
strength to win a world and lay it bound at his feet; and if 
the king had commanded him to undertake the twelve labors 
of Hercules, he would not have shrunk from the ordeal. 
Convinced that a glorious future awaited him, he prepared 
himself for it. No hour found him idle. When his com- 
trades, wearied by the fatiguing service and the oft-repeated 
exercises and preparations for war, retired to rest, Trenck 
was earnestly engaged in some grave study, some scientific 
work, seated at his writing-table surrounded with books, 
maps, and drawings. 

The young lieutenant was preparing himself to be a 
general, or a conquering hero, by his talents and his great 
deeds; to subdue the world and its prejudices; to bridge 
over with laurels and trophies the gulf which separated him 
from the princess. Was he not already on the way? Did 
not the future beckon to him with glorious promise? Must 
not he, who at eighteen years of age had attained that for 
which many not less endowed had given their whole lives in 
vain—he, the flattered cavalier, the scholar, and the officer 
of the king’s guard—be set apart, elected to some exalted 
fate? 

These were the thoughts which occupied the young man, 
and which made him forgetful of all other things, even the 
danger with which the slow movements of his horse and the 
ever-rising sun threatened him. 

It was the custom of the king to attend the early morning 
parade, and the commander, Captain Jaschinsky, did not be- 
long to Trenck’s friends; he envied him for his rapid pro- 
motion; it angered him that Trenck had, at a bound, reached 
that position to which he had wearily crept forward through 
long years of service. It would have made him happy to 
see this young man, who advanced so proudly and trium- 
phantly upon the path of honor and distinction, cast down 
from the giddy height of royal favor, and trampled in the 
dust of forgetfulness. He watched his young lieutenant 
with the smiling cunning of a base soul, resolved to punish 
_harshly the smallest neglect of duty. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 161 


And now he had found his opportunity. A sergeant, who 
was a spy for the captain, informed him that Trenck’s cor- 
poral had told him his master had ridden forth late in the 
night and had not yet returned. The sergeant had watched 
the door of the house in which Trenck resided, and was con- 
vinced that he was still absent. This intelligence filled the 
heart of Captain Jaschinsky with joy; he concealed it, how- 
ever, under the mask of indifference; he declared that he 
did not believe this story of Trenck’s absence. The young 
man knew full well that no officer was allowed to leave Pots- 
dam, even for an hour, without permission, particularly dur- 
ing the night. 

In order, as he said, to convince the sergeant of the un- 
truth of this statement, he sent him with some trifling com- 
mission to Lieutenant von Trenck. The sergeant returned 
triumphantly; the baron was not at home, and his servant 
was most anxious about him, The captain shrugged his 
shoulders silently. The clock struck eight; he seized his 
hat, and hastened to the parade. 

The whole line was formed; every officer stood by his 
regiment, except the lieutenant of the second company. The 
captain saw this at a glance, and a wicked smile for one mo- 
ment played upon his face. He rode with zealous haste to 
the front of his regiment and saluted the king, who de- 
scended the steps of the castle, accompanied by his generals 
and adjutants. 

At this moment, to the right wing of the regiment, there 
was a slight disturbance, which did not escape the listening 
ear of the captain. He turned his head, and saw that Trenck 
had joined his company, and that his horse was panting and 
bathed in sweat. The captain’s brow was clouded; the 
young officer seemed to have escaped the threatened danger. 
The king had seen nothing. Trenck was in his place, and it 
would be useless to bring a charge against him. 

The king, however, had seen all; his keen eye had ob- 
served Trenck’s rapid approach, and his glowing, heated 
countenance; and as he rode to the front, he drew in his 
horse directly before Trenck. 

“ How comes it that your horse is fatigued and sweating? 
I must suppose he is fresh from the stable, and his master 


162 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


just from his bed. It appears, however, that he has been 
delayed there; I see that he has just arrived upon the parade- 
ground.” 

The officer murmured a few incomprehensible words. 

“Will you answer me?” said the king; “is your horse 
just from the stable—are you directly from your bed?” 

Frederick von Trenck’s head had been bowed humbly 
upon his breast, he now raised it boldly up; he was resolved; 
his fierce eyes met those of the king. “ No, your majesty,” 
said he, with a cool, composed mien, “my horse is not from 
the stable—I am not from my bed.” 

There was a pause, an anxious, breathless pause. Every 
eye was fixed observantly upon the king, whose severity in 
military discipline was known and feared. 

“Do you know,” said the king at last, “that I command 
my officers to be punctual at parade?” 

“Yes, sire.’ 

“Do you know that it is positively forbidden to leave 
Potsdam without permission?” 

“Yes, your majesty.” 

“Well, then, since this was known to you, where have you 
been? You confess that you do not come from your dwell- 
ing?” . 

“Sire, I was on the chase, and loitered too long. I know 
I am guilty of a great misdemeanor, and I expect my pardon 
only from the grace of my king.” 

The king smiled, and his glance was mild and kindly. 
“You expect also, as it appears, under any circumstances, a 
pardon? Well, this time you shall not be disappointed. I 
am well pleased that you have been bold enough to speak the 
truth. I love truthful people; they are always brave. This 
time you shall go unpunished, but beware of the second 
offence. I warn you.” 

Alas! what power had even a king’s warning over the 
passionate love of a youth of eighteen? Trenck soon forgot 
the danger from which he had escaped; and even if remem- 
bered, it would not have restrained him. 

It was again a cloudy, dark night, and he knew that the 
princess expected him. As he stood again upon the balcony, 
guarded by the watchful master of ceremonies; as he lis- 











FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 163 


tened to the sweet music of Amelia’s voice and compre- 
hended the holy and precious character of her girlish and 
tender nature; as he sat at her feet, pouring out the rich 
treasures of his love and happiness, and felt her trembling 
small white hand upon his brow; as he dreamed with her of 
a blessed and radiant future, in which not only God and the 
night but the king and the whole world might know and 
recognize their love—how could he remember that the king 
had ordered the parade at seven in the morning, and that 
it was even now impossible for him to reach Potsdam at that 
hour? 

The parade was over when he reached his quarters. A 
guard stood before his door, and led him instantly before 
the king. Frederick was alone in his cabinet. He silently 
dismissed his adjutant and the guard, then walked for some 
time backward and forward through the room, without seem- 
ing to observe Trenck, who stood with pale but resolved 
countenance before the door. 

Trenck followed every movement of the king with a 
steady glance. “If he cashiers me, I will shoot myself,” he 
said in a low tone. “If he puts me to the torture, in order 
to learn the secret of my love, I can bear it and be silent.” 

But there was another possibility upon which, in the 
desperation of his soul, Trenck had not thought. What 
should he do if the king approached him mildly and sorrow- 
fully, and, with the gentle, persuasive words of a kind friend, 
besought him to explain this mystery? 

This was exactly the course adopted by the king. He 
stepped forward to the poor, pale, almost breathless youth, 
and looked him steadily in the eyes. His glance was not 
threatening and scornful, as Trenck had expected, but sad 
and reproachful. * 

“Why have you again secretly left Potsdam?” said the 
king. “ Where do you find the proud courage to disobey my 
commands? Captain Jaschinsky has brought serious charges 
against you. He tells me that you often leave Potsdam 
secretly. Do you know that, if punished according to the 
law, you must be cashiered ? ” 

“Yes, I know, sire. I also know that I will not outlive 
this shame.” 

11 


164 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


A scornful glance shot from the king’s eye. “Do you 
intend to make me anxious? Is that a menace?” 

“Pardon, sire. It is not in my power to make you anx- 
ious, and I do not dare to menace. Of what importance to 
your majesty is this atom, this unknown and insignificant 
youth, who is only seen when irradiated by the sunshine of 
your eye? I am nothing, and less than nothing, to your 
majesty; you are every thing to me. I will not, I cannot 
live if your highness withdraws your favor from me, and 
robs me of the possibility of winning a name and position for 
myself. That was my meaning, sire.” 

“You are, then, ambitious, and thirst for fame?” 

“Your majesty, I would gladly sell one-half of my life to 
the devil if he would insure me rank and glory for the other 
half, and after death an immortality of fame. Oh, how 
gladly would I make this contract! ” 

“Tf such ambition fires your soul, how can you be so fool- 
ish, so inconsiderate, as to bring degradation and shame upon 
yourself by carelessness in duty? He who is not prompt 
and orderly in small things, will neglect the most important 
duties. Where were you last night?” 

“ Sire, I was on the chase.” 

The king looked at him with angry, piercing eyes. 
Trenck had not the courage to bear this. He blushed and 
looked down. 

“You have told me an untruth,” said the king. “ Think 
again. Where were you last night?” 

“ Sire, I was on the chase.” 

“You repeat that?” 

“Your majesty, I repeat that.” 

‘Will you solemnly declare that this is true?” 

Trenck was silent. - 

“ Will you declare that this is true?” repeated the king. 

The young officer looked up, and this time he had the 
courage to meet the flaming eye of the king. “No, sire, I 
will not affirm it.” 

“You confess, then, that you have told me an untruth?” 

“Yes, your majesty.” 

“ Do you know that that is a new and grave offence?” 

“Yes, your majesty, but I cannot act otherwise.” 








FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 165 


“You will not, then, tell me the truth?” 

“T cannot.” 

“Not if your obstinacy will lead to your being imme- 
diately cashiered, and to your imprisonment in the for- 
tress?” 

“ Not then, your majesty. I cannot act differently.” 

“Trenck, Trenck, be on your guard! Remember that 
you speak to your lord and king, who has a right to demand 
the truth.” 

“ Your majesty may punish me, it is your right, and your 
duty, and I must bear it,” said Trenck, trembling and 
ghastly pale, but firm and confident in himself. 

The king moved off for a few moments, then stood again 
before his lieutenant. “ You will report to your captain, 
and ask for your discharge.” 

Trenck replied not. Perhaps it was not in his power. 
Two great tears ran slowly down his cheeks, and he did not 
restrain them. He wept for his youth, his happiness, his 
honor, and his fame. 

“Go!” repeated the king. 

The young man bowed low. “I thank you for gracious 
punishment,” he said; then turned and opened the door. 

The eyes of the king had followed him with marked in- 
terest. “Trenck!” cried he; and, as he turned and waited 
silently upon the threshold for the new command, the king 
stepped forward hastily and held out his hand. 

“T am content with you! You have gone astray, but the 
anguish of soul you have just now endured is a sufficient 
punishment. I forgive you.” 

A wild ery of joy burst from the pale lips of the youth. 
He bowed low over the king’s hand, and pressed it with pas- 
sionate earnestness to his lips. 

“Your majesty gives me my life again! I thank you! 
oh, I thank you!” 

The king smiled. “And yet your life must have but 
little worth for you, if you would sign it away so readily. 
Once more I have forgiven you, but I warn you for the fu- 
ture. Be on your guard, monsieur, or the lightning will fall 
and consume you.” * And now the king’s eye was threaten- 

* The king’s own words. See Trenck’s “ Mémoires.” 


166 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


ing, and his voice terrible in anger. “You have guarded 
your secret,” he said; “you did not betray it, even when 
threatened with punishment worse than death. Your honor, 
as a cavalier, demanded that; and I am not surprised that 
you hold it sacred. But there is yet another kind of honor, 
which you have this day tarnished—I mean obedience to 
your king and general. I forgive you for this; and now I 
must speak to you as a friend, and not as a king. You are 
wandering in dangerous paths, young man. Turn now, 
while there is yet time; turn before the abyss opens which 
will swallow you up! No man can serve two masters, or 
strive successfully after two objects. He who wills some- 
thing, must will it wholly; must give his undivided heart ° 
and strength to its attainment; must sacrifice every thing 
else to the one great aim! You are striving for love and 
fame at the same time, and you will forfeit both. Love 
makes a man soft and yielding. He who leaves a mistress 
behind him cannot go bravely and defiantly into battle, 
though women despise men who are not gallant and laurel- 
crowned. Strive then, Trenck, first to become a hero; then 
it will be time to play the lover. Pluck your laurels first, 
and then gather the myrtle-wreath. If this counsel does 
not suit you, then give up your ambition, and the path to 
fame which you have chosen. Lay aside your sword; though 
I can promise you that soon, and with honor, you may hope 
to use it. But lay it aside, and take up the pen or the ham- 
mer; build yourself a nest; take a wife, and thank God for 
the gift of a child every twelve months; and pray that the 
sound of battle may be heard only in the distance, and the 
steps of soldiers may not disturb your fields and gardens. 
That is also a future, and there are those who are content 
with it; whose ears are closed to the beat of drums and the 
sound of alarm-bells which now resound throughout Europe. 
Choose, then, young man. Will you be a soldier, and with 
God’s help a hero? or will you go again ‘ upon the chase?’ ” 

“T will be a soldier,” cried Trenck, completely carried 
away. “I will win fame, honor, and distinction upon the 
battle-field, and above all I will gain the approbation and 
consideration of my king. My name shall be known and 
honored by the world.” 








FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 167 


“That is a mighty aim,” said the king, smiling, “ and it 
requires the dedication of a life. You must offer up many 
things, and above all other things ‘the chase.’ I do not 
know what you have sought, and I do not wish to know. 
T counsel you though, as a friend, to give up the pursuit. 
I have placed the two alternatives before you, and you have 
made your choice—you will be a brave soldier. Now, then, 
from this time onward, I will be inexorable against even 
your smallest neglect of duty. In this way only can I make 
of you what you resolve to be—a gallant and stainless officer. 
I will tell your captain to watch you and report every fault; 
I will myself observe and scrutinize your conduct, and woe 
to you if I find you again walking in crooked paths! I will 
be stern and immovable. Now, monsieur, you are warned, 
and cannot complain if a wild tempest bursts over your head; 
the guilt and responsibility will be yours, Not another 
word! Adieu!” 

Long after Trenck had left the room, the king stood. 
thoughtfully looking toward the door through which the tall,. 
graceful figure of the young officer had disappeared. 

“A heart of steel, a head of iron,” said the king to 
himself. “He will be very happy, or very wretched. For 
such natures there is no middle way. Alas! I fear it had 
been better for him if I had dismissed him, and—”’ Fred- 
erick did not complete his sentence; he sighed deeply, and. 
his brow was clouded. He stepped to his writing-table and 
took up a large sealed envelope, opened and read it carefully. 
A sad smile played upon his lips. “ Poor Amelia!” said he 
— poor sister! They have chosen you to be assistant Ab- 
bess of Quedlinburg. A miserable alternative for the Swed- 
ish throne, which was in your power! Well, I will sign this 
paper.” He took the pen and hastily wrote his name upon 
the diploma. “If she is resolved never to marry, she will 
be one day Abbess of Quedlinburg—that is something. 
Aurora of Kénigsmark was content with that, but only after 
she had reached the height of earthly grandeur.” 

Frederick was completely unmanned by these painful 
thoughts. He raised his eyes to heaven, and said in a low 
tone: “Poor human heart! why has Fate made you so soft, 
when you must become stone in order to support the disap- 


168 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


pointments and anguish of life?” He stood bowed down for 
a long time, in deep thought; then suddenly rising proudly 
erect, he exclaimed: “ Away with such cares! I have no 
time to play the considerate and amiable father to my 
family. My kingly duty and service call me with trumpet 
tones.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE COUNCIL OF WAR. 


FREDERICK stepped from the room into the adjoining 
saloon, where his ministers and generals were assembled for 
a council of war. His expression was calm and clear, and 
an imposing fire and earnestness lighted up his eyes. He 
was again the king, and the conqueror, and his voice rang out 
martially: 

“The days of comfort and repose are over; we have 
reasoned and diplomatized too long; we must now move and 
strike. I am surfeited with this contest of pen and ink. I 
am weary of Austrian cunning and intrigue. In these 
weighty and important matters I will not act alone upon my 
own convictions; I will listen to your opinions and receive 
your counsel: I will not declare war until you say that an. 
honorable peace is no longer possible. I will unsheath the 
sword only when the honor of my throne and of my people 
demands it, and even then with a heavy heart; for I know 
what burdens and bitter woes it will bring upon my poor 
land. Let us therefore carefully read, weigh, and under- 
stand the paper which lies upon the table, and fulfil the 
duties which it lays upon us.” 

Frederick stepped to the table and seated himself. The 
generals, the old Dessauer, Ziethen, Winterfeld, and the 
king’s favorite, Rothenberg, with the ministers and coun- 
cillor of state, placed themselves silently around the table. 
The eyes of all these experienced men, accustomed to battle 
and to victory, were steadily fixed upon the king. His 


= 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 169 


youthful countenance alone was clear and bright; not a 
shadow was seen upon his brow. 

There was a pause—a stillness like that which precedes 
a tempest. Every one felt the importance of the moment. 
All these wise and great men knew that the young man who 
stood in their midst, with such proud and calm composure 
and assurance, held in his hands at this moment the fate of 
Europe; that the scales would fall on that side to which his 
sword was consecrated. The king raised his head, and his 
eyes wandered searchingly from one to the other of the 
earnest faces which surrounded him. 

“You know, messieurs,” said Frederick, “that Maria 
Theresa, who calls herself Empress of Germany and of Rome, 
still makes war against our ally Charles the Seventh. Her 
general, Karl von Lothringen, has triumphed over the Bava- 
rian and French army at Sempach; and Bavaria, left, by the 
flight of the emperor, without a leader, has been compelled 
to submit to Maria Theresa, Queen of Hungary. She has 
allied herself with England, Hanover, and Saxony. And 
these allied powers have been victorious over the army of 
our ally, King Louis of France, commanded by Marshal 
Noailles. These successes have made our enemies imperious. 
They have demanded much; they have resolved to obtain all. 
Apparently they are the most powerful. Holland has 
offered money and ships; Sardinia and Saxony have just 
signed the treaty made at Worms by England, Austria, and 
Holland. So they have troops, gold, and powerful allies. 
We have nothing but our honor, our swords, and our good 
cause. We are the allies of a land poor in itself, and, what 
is still worse, governed by a weak and faint-hearted emperor; 
and of Franee, whose king is the plaything of courtiers and 
mistresses. Our adversaries know their strength, and are 


-acquainted with our weakness. Look, messieurs, at this let- 


ter of George of England to our godmother, Maria Theresa 
of Hungary; an accident placed it in our hands, or, if you 
will, a Providence, which, without doubt, watches over the 
prosperity of Prussia. Read it, messieurs.” 

He handed General Rothenberg a paper, which he read 
with frowning brow and scarcely suppressed scorn, and then 
passed it on to Winterfeld. The king studied the face of 


170 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCT; OR, 


every reader, and, the more dark and stormy it appeared, the 
more gay and happy was the expression of his countenance. 

He received the letter again with a friendly smile from 
the hands of his minister, and pointing to it with his finger, 
he said: “ Have you well considered these lines where the 
king says, ‘Madame, what is good to take, is also good to 
return’? What think you of these words, Prince von Ane 
halt?” 

“T think,” said the silver-haired old warrior, “that we 
will prove to the English king what Frederick of Prussia 
once holds cannot be rescued from him.” 

“You think, then, that our hands are strong enough to 
hold our possessions ?” 

“Yes, your majesty.” 

“ And you, gentlemen?” 

“We share the opinion of the prince.” 

“You have expressed precisely my own views,” cried 
Frederick, with delight. “If this is your conclusion, mes- 
sieurs, I rejoice to lay before you another document. It was 
above all other things the desire of my heart, as long as it 
was possible, to preserve the peace of Germany. I have 
sacrificed my personal inclination and my ambition to this 
aim. I have united the German princes for the protection 
of Charles the Seventh. The Frankfort union should be a 
lever to restore freedom to Germany, dignity to the emperor, 
and peace to Europe. But no success has crowned this 
union; discord prevails amongst them. A part of our allies 
have left us, under the pretext that France will not pay the 
promised gold. Charles the Seventh is flying from place to 
place, and our poor land is groaning under the burdens of a 
crippling and exhausting war. We must put an end to this. 
In such dire need and necessity it is better to die an honor- 
able death than to bear disgrace, to live like beggars by the 
grace of our enemies. I have not the insolence and courage 
of cowardice so to live. I will die or conquer! I will wash 
out these scornful words of the King of England with blood. 
Silesia, my Silesia, which I have conquered, and which is 
mine by right, I will hold against all the efforts of the Hun- 
garian queen. Look, now, at this document; it is a treaty 
which I have closed with France against Austria, and for the 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 171 


protection of the Emperor Charles. And now, here is an- 
other paper. It is a manifesto which Maria Theresa has 
scattered throughout all Silesia, in which she declares that 
she no longer considers herself bound by the treaty of Bres- 
lau, but claims Silesia and Glatz as her own. Consequently 
she commands the Silesians to withdraw from the protection 
of Prussia, and give their allegiance to their rightful in- 
heritor.” 

“That is an open breach of contract,” said one of the 
generals. 

“That is contrary to all justice and the rights of the 
people,” cried another. 

“That is Austrian politics,” said the king, smiling. 
“They hold to a solemn contract, which was detrimental to 
them, only so long as necessity compels it; so soon as an 
opportunity offers to their advantage, they prove faithless. 
They do not care to be considered honorable, they only de- 
sire to be feared, and above all, they will bear no equals and 
no rivals in Germany. Maria Theresa feels herself strong 
enough to take back this Silesia I won from her, and a 
peace contract is not sacred in her eyes. Austria was and is 
naturally the enemy of Prussia, and will never forgive us 
because our father, by the power of his genius, made himself 
a king. Austria would gladly see the King of Prussia 
buried in the little Elector of Brandenburg, and make her- 
self rich with our possessions. Will we suffer that, mes- 
sieurs! ” 

“ Never!” said the generals, and the fire of battle flashed 
in their eyes. 

“The Queen of Hungary has commanded her troops to 
enter Glatz. Shall we wait till this offence is repeated?” 

“Tf the Austrian troops have made us a visit, politeness 
requires that we should return the call,” said Ziethen, with a 
dry laugh. 

“Tf the Queen of Hungary has sent a manifesto to Si- 
lesia, we must, above all other things, answer this mani- 
festo,” said the councillor of state. 

“Maria Theresa is so bold and insolent because Bellona 
is a woman, consequently her sister; but we will prove to 
her that Dame Bellona will rather ally herself with gallant 


172 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


men than with sentimental women,” said General Rothen< 
berg. 

“ Now, messieurs, what say you? shall we have peace or 
war?” 

“War, war!” cried they all in one breath, and with one 
movement. 

The king raised himself from his chair, and his eagle 
eye was dazzling. 

“'The decisive word is spoken,” said he, solemnly. “ Let 
it be as you say! We will have war! Prepare yourselves, 
then, generals, to return the visit of Austria. Ziethen tells 
us that this is a courtly duty. Our councillor will write the 
answer to Maria Theresa’s manifesto. The Austrians have 
visited us in Glatz, we will return their call in Prague. 
Rothenberg thinks that Dame Bellona would incline to our 
arms rather than to those of the queen, so we will seek to 
win her by tender embraces. I think the goddess would 
favor our Prince of Anhalt, they have often fought side by 
side. Up, then, prince, to battle and to love’s sweet courte- 
sies with your old Mistress Bellona! Up, my friends, one 
and all! the days of peace are over. We will have war, and 
may God grant His blessing to our just cause! ” 


CHAPTER X. 


THE CLOISTER OF CAMENS. 


It was a still, lovely morning. The sun gilded the lofty, 
giant mountain and irradiated its snow-crowned top with 
shifting and many-colored light; it appeared like a giant 
lily, luminous and odorous. The air was so clear and pure, 
that even in the far distance this range of mountains looked 
grand and sublime. The spectator was deluded by the hope 
of reaching their green and smiling summits in a few mo- 
ments. In their majestic and sunny beauty they seemed to 
beckon and to lure you on. Even those who had been for a 
long time accustomed to this enchanting region would have 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 173 


been impressed to-day with its exalted beauty. Grand old 
Nature is a woman, and has her feminine peculiarities; she 
rejoices in her beaux jours, even as other women. 

The landscape spread out at the feet of those two monks 
now walking in silent contemplation on the platform before 
the Cloister of Camens, had truly to-day her beau jour, and 
sparkled and glittered in undisturbed repose. 

“How beautiful is the world!” said one, folding his 
hands piously, and gazing up into the valley; “created by 
wisdom and love, adapted to our necessities and enjoyments, 
to a life well-pleasing to God. Look now, brother, at the 
imposing majesty of that mountain, and at the lovely, smil- 
ing valley which lies at its feet. There, in the little village 
of Camens, this busy world is in motion, and from the city 
of Frankenstein I distinguish the sound of the bells calling 
to early morning prayer.” 

“ That is, perhaps, the alarm-bell,” said the second monk; 
“the wind is against us; we could not hear the sound of the 
small bells. I fear that is the alarm-bell.” 

“ Why should the Frankensteiners sound the alarm-bell, 
Brother Tobias?” said his companion, with a soft, incredu- 
lous smile. 

“Why, Brother Anastasius, because the Austrians have 
possibly sent their advance guard to Frankenstein. The 
Frankensteiners have sworn allegiance to the King of Prus- 
sia, and probably desire to keep this oath; they sound the 
alarm, therefore, to call the lusty burghers to arms.” 

“ And do you truly believe that the Austrians are so near 
us, Brother Tobias?” 

“T do not believe—I know it. Before three days Gen- 
eral Count Wallis will enter our cloister with his staff, and, 
in the name of Maria Theresa, command us to take the 
oath.” 

“You can never forget that we were once Austrians, 
Brother Tobias. Your eyes sparkle when you think that the 
Austrians are coming, and you forget that his excellency the 
Abbot Stusche is, with his whole heart, devoted to the King 
of Prussia, and that he will never again subject himself to 
Austrian rule.” 

“He will be forced to it, Brother Anastasius. The star 


174 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


of the Prussian king has declined; his war triumphs are at an 
end; God has turned away His face from him, because he 
is not a true Christian; he is, indeed, a heathen and an 
infidel.” . 

“Still, still, Brother Tobias! If the abbot heard you, 
he would punish you with twenty pater-nosters, and you 
know very well that praying is not the business of your 
choice.” 

“Tt is true; I am fonder of war and politics. I can 
never forget that in my youth I was a brave soldier, and 
have more than once shed my blood for Austria. You will 
understand now why I am an Austrian. I declare to you, 
I would cheerfully say thirty pater-nosters every day, if we 
could be once more subject to Austria.” 

“Well, happily, there is no hope of that.” 

“ Happily, there is great hope of it. You know nothing 
about it. You read your holy prayers, you study your 
learned books, and take but little interest in the outward 
world. I know all, hear all, take part in all. I study poli- 
tics and the world’s history, as diligently as you study the 
old Fathers.” 

“Well, Brother Tobias, instruct me a little in your 
studies. You are right; I care but little for these things, 
and I am heartily glad of it. It grieves me to hear of the 
wrath and contentions of men. God sent us into the world 
to live in peace and love with one another.” 

“Tf that be so, why has God permitted us to discover 
gunpowder?” said Brother Tobias, whistling merrily. “I 
say to you that by the power of gunpowder and the naked 
sword Silesia will soon be in possession of the faithful be- 
liever Maria Theresa. Is it not manifest that God is with 
her? The devil in the beginning, with the help of the Prus- 
sian king and his wild army, did seem more powerful than 
God himself! Only think that the gates of Breslau were 
opened by a box on the ear! that the year before, Prague was 
taken almost without a blow! It seemed indeed like child’s 
play. Frederick was in possession of almost the whole of 
Bohemia, but like a besieged and suffering garrison he was 
obliged to creep away. God sent an enemy against him who 
is more powerful than all mortal foes, his army was perishing 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 175 


with hunger. There is no difference between the bravest 
soldier and the little maiden when they fall into the hands 
of this adversary. Hunger drove the victorious King of 
Prussia out of Bohemia; hunger made him abandon Silesia 
and seek refuge in Berlin.* Oh, I assure you, we will soon 
cease to be Prussians. While King Frederick is refreshing 
and amusing himself in Berlin, the Austrians have entered 
Glatz, and bring us greetings from our gracious queen, Maria 
“Theresa.” 

“Tf the King of Prussia hears of these greetings, he will 
‘answer them by cannon-balls.” 

“Did I not tell you that Frederick of Prussia was idling 
away in Berlin, and recovering from his disastrous cam- 
paign in Bohemia? The Austrians will have taken posses- 
sion of all Upper Silesia before the king and his soldiers 
have satisfied their hunger. I tell you, in a few days they 
‘will be with us.” 

“God forbid!” said Brother Anastasius; “then will the 
torch of war burn anew, and misfortune and misery will 
Teign again throughout Silesia.” 

“Yes, that is true. I will tell you another piece of news, 
which I heard yesterday in Frankenstein; it is said that the 
King of Prussia has quietly left Berlin and gone himself 
into Silesia to look after the Austrians. Would it not be 
charming if Frederick should make our cloister a visit, just 
as General Count Wallis and his troops entered Camens?” 

“And you would eall that charming?” said Brother 
Anastasius, with a reproachful look. 

“Yes, most assuredly; the king would be taken prisoner, 
and the war would be at an end. You may rest assured the 
Austrians would not give the king his liberty till he had 
yielded up Silesia for ransom.” 

“May God be gracious, and guard us from war and pes- 
tilence!” murmured Brother Anastasius, folding his hands 
piously in prayer. 

The thrice-repeated stroke of the bell in the cloister in- 
terrupted his devotions, and the full, round face of Brother 
Tobias glowed with pleasing anticipations. 

“ They ring for breakfast, Brother Anastasius,” said he; 

* Preuss’s “ History of Frederick the Great.” 


176 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“let us hasten before Brother Baptist, who is ever the first 
at the table, appropriates the best morsels and lays them 
on his plate. Come, come, brother; after breakfast we will 
go into the garden and water our flowers. We have a 
lovely day and ample time—it will be three hours before 
mass.” 
“Come, then, brother, and may your dangerous prophe- 
cies and expectations not be fulfilled! ” 
The two monks stepped into the cloister, and a deep and 
unbroken silence reigned around, interrupted only by the 
sweet songs of the birds and the light movements of their 
wings. The building was in the noble style of the middle 
ages, and stood out in grand and harmonious proportions 
against the deep blue of the horizon. 
It was, without doubt, to observe the beauty and grandeur 
of this structure, that two travellers who had toiled slowly 
up the path leading from the village of Camens, now paused 
and looked with wondering glances at the cloister. 
“There must be a splendid view from the tower,” said 
the oldest and smaller of the travellers to his tall and slen- 
der companion, who was gazing with rapture at the enchant- 
ing landscape. 
“It must indeed be a glorious prospect,” he replied with a 
respectful bow. 
“Tt affords a splendid opportunity to look far and wide 
over the land, and to see if the Austrian troops are really on 
the march,” said the other, with a stern and somewhat hasty 
tone. “ Let us enter and ascend the tower.” 
The youth bowed silently, and followed, at some little dis- 
tance, the hasty steps of his companion. They reached the 
platform, and stood for a moment to recover breath. 
“We have reached the summit—if we were only safely 
down again.” ! 
“We can certainly descend; the question is, under what 
circumstances? ” 
“You mean, whether free or as prisoners? Well, I see 

no danger; we are completely disguised, and no one knows 
me here. The Abbot Amandus is dead, and the new abbot 
is unknown to me. Let us make haste; ring the bell.” 

The youth was in the act of obeying, when suddenly a 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 177 


voice cried out: “ Don’t sound the bell—I will come myself 
and open the door.” 

A man had been standing at the upper story, by an open 
window, and heard the conversation of the two travellers. 
He drew in his head hastily and disappeared. 

“Tt seems I am not so unknown as I supposed,” said the 
smaller of the two gentlemen, with a quiet smile. 

“Who knows whether these monks are reliable and 
true?” whispered the other. 

“You certainly would not doubt these exalted servants 
of God? I, for my part, shall believe in their sincerity 
till they convince me of the contrary. Ah! the door is 
opened.” 

The small door was indeed open, and a monk came out, 
and hastily drew near to the two travellers. 

“T am the Abbot Tobias Stusche; I am also a man wholly 
devoted to the King of Prussia, though he does not know 
me.” 

The abbot laid such a peculiar expression upon these 
last words, that the strangers were forced to remark them. 

“Do you not know the King of Prussia?” said the elder, 
fixing his eagle eye upon the kindly and friendly face of the 
abbot. 

“T know the king when he does not wish to be incognito,” 
said the abbot, with a smile. 

“Tf the king were here, would you counsel him to remain 
incognito ?” 

“T would counsel that; some among my monks are Aus- 
trian in sympathy, and I hear the Austrians are at hand.” 

“My object is to look out from your tower after the 
Austrians. Let us enter; show us the way.” 

The abbot said nothing, but entered the cloister hastily, 
and cast a searching glance in every direction. 

“ They are all yet in the refectory, and the windows open 
upon the gardens. But no—there is Brother Anastasius.” 

It was truly Brother Anastasius, who stood at the win- 
dow, and regarded them with astonished and sympathetic 
glances. The abbot nodded to him and laid his forefinger 
lightly upon his lips; he then hastily crossed the threshold 
of the little door. 


178 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


The stranger laid his hand upon the shoulder of the abbot, 
and said sternly, “ Did you not give a sign to this monk?” 

“Yes, the sign of silence,” answered the abbot; and 
turning back, he looked calmly upon the strangers. 

“Let us go onward.” And with a firm step they entered 
the cloister. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE KING AND THE ABBOT. 


SILENTLY they passed through the lofty halls and corri- 
dors, which resounded with the steps of the strangers, and © 
reached the rooms appropriated to the abbot. As they en- 
tered and the door closed behind them, shutting them off 
from the seeing and listening world, the face of the abbot 
assumed an expression of the most profound reverence and 
emotion. He crossed his hands over his breast, and bowing 
profoundly, he said: “ Will your majesty allow me from the 
depths of my soul to welcome you? In the rooms of the 
Abbot Tobias Stusche, King Frederick need not preserve his 
incognito. Blessed be your entrance into my house, and 
may your departure also be blessed! ” 

The king smiled. “This blessed conclusion, I suppose, 
depends entirely upon your excellency. I really cannot say 
what danger threatens us. It certainly was not my inten- 
tion to wander here; to stretch out my reconnoissance to 
such a distance. But what would you, sir abbot? I am not 
only a king and soldier, but I am a man, with eye and heart 
open to the beauties of nature, and I worship God in His 
works of creation. Your cloister enticed me with its beauty. 
In place of mounting my horse and riding back from Frank- 
enstein, I was lured hither to admire your building and enjoy 
the splendid prospect from your tower. Allow me to rest 
awhile; give me a glass of wine, and then we will mount the 
tower.” 

There was so much of calm, bold courage, so much of 
proud self-consciousness in the bearing of the king, that the 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 179 


poor, anxious abbot could not find courage to express his 
apprehensions. He turned and looked imploringly at the 
companion of the king, who was no other than the young 
officer of the life-guard, Frederick von Trenck. The youth 
seemed to share fully the careless indifference of his royal 
master; his face was smiling, and he did not seem to under- 
stand the meaning looks of the abbot. 

“Will your majesty allow me, and me alone, to have the 
honor of serving you?” said his excellency. “I am jealous 
of the great happiness which Providence has accorded me, 
and I will not divide it with another, not even with my 
monks.” 

Frederick laughed heartily. “Confess, your excellency, 
that you dare not trust your monks. You do not know that 
they are as good Prussians as I have happily found you to 
be? Go, then, if it is agreeable to you, and with your own 
pious hands bring me a glass of wine, I need not say good 
wine—you cloistered men understand that.” 

Frederick leaned back comfortably in his arm-chair and 
conversed cheerfully, even merrily, with his young adjutant 
and the worthy abbot, who hastened here and there, and 
drew from closets and hiding-places wine, fruit, and other 
rich viands. The cloistered stillness, the unbroken quiet 
which surrounded him, were pleasing to the king; his fea- 
tures were illuminated with that soft and at the same time 
imposing smile which played but seldom upon his lips, but 
which, like the sun, when it appeared, filled all hearts with 
light and gladness. Several hours passed—hours which the 
king did not seem to observe, but the heart of the poor abbot 
was trembling with apprehension. 

“ And now,” said the king, “I am rested, refreshed, and 
strengthened. Will your excellency conduct me to the tower? 
then I will return to Frankenstein.” 

“There is happily a way to the tower for my use alone,” 
said the abbot, “ where we are certain to be met by no one. 
I demand pardon, sire, the way is dark and winding, and we 
must mount many small steps.” 

“Well, abbot, it resembles the way to eternal life; from 
the power of darkness to light; from the path of sin and 
folly to = of knowledge and true wisdom. I will seek 


180 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


after this knowledge from your tower, worthy abbot. Have 
you my field-glass, Trenck?” 

The adjutant bowed, silently; they passed through the 
corridor and mounted the steps, reaching at last the plat- 
form at the top of the tower. 

A wondrous prospect burst upon their view; the horizon 
seemed bounded by majestic mountains of porphyry—this 
third element or place of deposit of the enchanting primeval 
earth, out of which mighty but formless mass our living, 
breathing, and beautiful world sprang into creation, and the 
stars sang together for joy. In the midst of these mountains 
stoed the “Giant,” with his snow-crowned point, like the 
great finger of God, reaching up into the heavens, and con- 
trasting strangely with the lofty but round green summits 
of the range, now gilded by the morning sun, and sparkling 
in changing rays of light. 

The king looked upon this picture with rapture; an ex- 
pression of prayer and praise was written upon his face. 
But with the proud reserve which ever belongs to those who, 
by exalted rank or genius, are isolated from other men, with 
the shrinking of a great soul, the king would allow no one 
to witness his emotion. He wished to be alone, alone with 
Nature and Nature’s God; he dismissed the abbot and his 
adjutant, and commanded them to wait in the rooms below 
for him. And now, convinced that no one saw or heard him, 
the king gave himself up wholly to the exalted and pious 
feelings which agitated his soul. With glistening eyes he 
gazed upon the enchanting landscape, which glowed and 
shimmered in the dazzling sunshine. 

“ God, God!” said he, in low tones; “ who can doubt that 
He is, and that He is from everlasting to everlasting? Who, 
that looks upon the beauty, the harmony, and order of crea- 
tion, can doubt of His wisdom, and that His goodness is over 
all His works?* O my God, I worship you in your . 
works of creation and providence, and I bow my head in 
adoration at the footstool of your divine Majesty. Why 
cannot men be content with this great, mysterious, exalted, 
and ever-enduring church, with which God has surrounded 
them? Why can they not worship in Nature’s great cathe- . 

* The king’s own words. “(Zuvres posthumes,” page 162. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 181 


dral? Why do they confine themselves to churches of 
brick and mortar, the work of men’s hands, and listen to 
their hypocritical priests, rather than listen to and worship 
God in His beautiful world? They cry out against me and 
call me an infidel, but my heart is full of love and faith in 
my Creator, and I worship Him, not in priestly words, but 
in the depths of my soul.” 

And now Frederick cast a smiling greeting to the lovely 
phenomena which lay at his feet. His thoughts had been 
with God, and his glance upward; but now his eyes wan- 
dered over the perfumed and blooming valley which lay in 
the depths between the mountains; he numbered the little 
cities and villages, with their red roofs and graceful church- 
spires; he admired the straw-thatched huts upon whose 
highest points the stork had built her nest, and stood by it 
in observant and majestic composure. 

“This is all mine; I won it with my spear and bow. It 
is mine, and I will never yield it up. I will prove to Maria 
Theresa that what was good to take was not good to re- 
store. No, no! Silesia is mine; my honor, my pride, and 
my fame demand it. I will never give it up. I will de- 
fend it with rivers of blood, yes, with my own heart’s 
blood!” 

He took his glass and looked again over the luxurious 
valley; he started and fixed his glass steadily upon one 
point. In the midst of the smiling meadows through which 
the highway wound like a graceful stream, he saw a curious, 
glittering, moving mass. At the first glance it looked like 
a crowd of creeping ants; it soon, however, assumed larger 
proportions, and, at last, approaching ever nearer, the forms 
of men could be distinctly seen, and now he recognized a 
column of marching soldiers. 

“ Austrians,” said the king, with calm composure. He 
turned his glass in the other direction, where a road led 
into the valley; this path was also filled with soldiers, who, 
by rapid marches, were approaching the cloister. “ With- 
out doubt they know that I am here,” said the king; “ they 
have learned this in the village, and have come to take me 
prisoner. Eh bien, nous verrons.” 

So saying, Frederick put his glass in his pocket, de- 


182 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


scended the steps, and with cool indifference entered the 
room of the abbot. 

“ Messieurs,” said he, laughing merrily, as he looked at 
the good-natured and unsuspicious faces of the worthy abbot 
and the young officer, “we must decide upon some plan of 
defence, for the Austrians draw near on every side of the 
cloister.” 

“Oh, my prophetic soul!” murmured the abbot, folding 
his hands in prayer. 

Trenck rushed to the window and looked searchingly 
abroad. At this moment a loud knock was heard upon the 
door, and an anxious voice called to the abbot. 

“ All is lost, the Austrians are already here!” cried To- 
bias Stusche, wringing his hands despairingly. 

“No!” said the king, “they cannot yet have reached the 
cloister, and that is not the voice of a soldier who commands, 
but that of a monk who prays, and is almost dead with ter- 
ror; let us open the door.” 

“O my God, your majesty! would you betray yourself?” 
cried Stusche, and forgetting all etiquette, he rushed to the 
king, laid his hand upon his arm and held him back. 

“No,” said the king, “I will not betray myself, neither 
will I conceal myself. I will meet my fate with my face to 
the foe.” 


“Open, open, for God’s sake!” cried the voice with- 


! ? 
out. 
“He prays in God’s name,” said the king. “I will open 
the door.” He crossed the room and drew back the bolt. 

And now, the pale and anxious face of Brother Anas- 
tasius appeared. He entered hastily, closed and fastened 
the door. 

“Pardon,” said he, trembling and breathless—* pardon 
that I have dared to enter. The danger is great; the Aus- 
trians surround the cloister.” 

“ Are they already here?” said the king. 

“No; but they have sent a courier, who commands us 
immediately to open all the doors and give entrance to the 
soldiers of Maria Theresa.” 

“ Have they given a reason for this command ? ” 

“Yes; they say they know assuredly that the King of 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 183 


Prussia is concealed here, and they come to search the clois- 
ter.” 

“ Have you not said to them, that we are not only the 
servants of God, but the servants of the King of Prussia? 
Have you not said to them that the doors of our cloister can 
only open to Prussian troops?” 

“ Yes, your excellency. I told the soldier all this, but he 
laughed, and said the pandours of Colonel von Trenck knew 
how to obtain an entrance.” 

“ Ah! it is Trenck, with his pandours,” cried the king, 
casting a searching glance at Frederick von Trenck, who 
stood opposite, with pale and tightly-compressed lips; he 
met the eye of the king boldly, however, and looked him 
steadily in the face. 

“Ts Colonel Trenck your relation?” said the king, 
hastily. 

“Yes, your majesty; he is my father’s brother’s son,” 
said the young man, proudly. 

“ Ah! I see you have a clear conscience,” said the king, 
laying his hand smilingly upon the youth’s shoulder. “ But, 
tell me, worthy abbot, do you know any way to rescue us 
from this mouse-trap ?” 

Tobias did not reply immediately; he stood thoughtfully 
with his arms folded, then raised his head quickly, as if he 
had come to some bold conclusion; energy and purpose were 
written in his face. “ Will your majesty make use of the 
means which I dare to offer you?” 

“Yes, if they are not unworthy. I owe it to my people 
not to lay upon them the burden of my ransom.” 

“Then I hope, with God’s help, to serve your majesty.” 
He turned to the monk, and said, with a proud, commanding 
tone: “ Brother Anastasius, listen to my commands. Go im- 
mediately to Messner, order him in my name to call all the 
brothers to high mass in the choir of the church; threaten 
him with my wrath and the severest punishment, if he 
dares to speak to one of the brethren. I will prove my 
monks, and see if they recognize that obedience is the first 
duty in a cloister.” 

“While Messner assembles the priests, shall the bell 
sound for mass?” 


184 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


% Hasten, Brother Anastasius ; in ten minutes we must 
be all in the church.” 

“ And you expect to save me by celebrating high mass?” 
said Frederick, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Yes, sire, I expect it. Will your majesty graciously ac- 
company me to my dressing-room?” 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE UNKNOWN ABBOT. 


THE bell continued to sound, and its silver tones echoed 
in the lofty halls and corridors, through which the priests, 
in their superb vestments and holy orders, passed onward to 
the church. Surprise and wonder were written upon every 
face; curious questions were burning upon every lip, re- 
strained, however, by the strong habit of obedience. The 
abbot had commanded that not one word should be ex- 
changed between the brethren. The abbot must be obeyed, 
though the monks might die of curiosity. Silently they 
entered the church. And now the bell ceased to toll, and 
the grand old organ filled the church with a rich stream of 
harmony. Suddenly the nétes were soft and touching, and 
the strong, full voices of men rose high above them. 

While the organ swelled, and the church resounded with 
songs of prayer and praise, the Abbot Tobias Stusche en- 
tered the great door. But this time he was not, as usual, 
alone. Another abbot, in the richly-embroidered habili- 
ments of a féte day, stood by his side. No one had ever seen 
this abbot. He was wholly unknown. 

Every eye was turned upon him; every one was struck 
with the commanding and noble countenance, with the im- 
posing brow and luminous eye, which cast searching and 
threatening glances in every direction. All felt that some- 
thing strange, unheard of, was passing in their midst. They 
knew this stranger, glowing with youth, beauty, and majesty, 
was no common priest, no humble brother. 


it 








FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 185 


The command to strict silence had been given, and im- 
plicit obedience is the first duty of the cloister. So they 
were silent, sang, and prayed; while Tobias Stusche, with 
the strange abbot, swept slowly and solemnly through the 
aisles up to the altar. They both fell upon their knees and 
folded their hands in silent prayer. 

Again the organ swelled, and the voices of the choristers 
rose up in adoration and praise; but every eye and every 
thought were fixed upon the strange abbot kneeling before 
the high altar, and wrestling with God in prayer. And now 
the organ was silent, and the low prayers began. The monks 
murmured mechanically the accustomed words; nothing was 
heard but sighs of penitence and trembling petitions, which 
seemed to fade and die away amongst the lofty pillars of the 
cathedral. 

Suddenly a loud noise was heard without, the sound of 
pistols and threatening voices demanding admittance. No 
one regarded this. The church doors were violently thrown 
open, and wild, rude forms, sunbrowned and threatening 
faces appeared. For one moment noisy tumult and outcry 
filled the church, but it was silenced by the holy service, now 
celebrated by these kneeling, praying monks, who held their 
beads in their hands, and gave no glance, in token of interest — 
or consciousness, toward the wild men who had so insolently 
interrupted the worship of God. The soldiers bowed their 
heads humbly upon their breasts, and prayed for pardon and 
grace. This holy duty being fulfilled, they remembered 
their worldly calling, and commenced to search the church 
for the King of Prussia, whom they believed to be hidden 
there. The clang of spurs and heavy steps resounded 
through the aisles, and completely drowned the prayers and 
sighs of the monks, who, kneeling upon their stools, seemed 
to have no eye or thought for any thing but the solemn ser- 
vice in which they were engaged. 

The pandours, in their dark, artistic costumes, with the 
red mantle fastened to their shoulders, swarmed through the 
church, and with flashing eyes and scarcely suppressed curses 
searched in every niche and behind every pillar for Fred- 
erick of Prussia. How often did these wild forms pass by 
the two abbots, who were still kneeling, immovable in raptur- 


186 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


ous meditation, before the high altar! How often did their 
swords strike upon the floor behind them, and even fasten 
in the vestment of the strange abbot, who, with closed eyes 
and head bowed down upon his breast, had no knowledge of 
their presence! 

The prayers had continued much longer than usual, and 
yet the abbot did not pronounce the benediction! And now 
he did indeed give a sign, but not the one expected. He 
rose from his knees, but did not leave the church; with his 
companion, he mounted the steps to the altar, to draw near 
to the holy crucifix and bless the host. He nodded to the 
choir, and again the organ and the choristers filled the church 
with melody. 

This was something so extraordinary that the monks 
turned pale, and questioned their consciences anxiously. 
Had they not committed some great crime, for which their 
stern abbot was resolved to punish them with everlasting 
prayer and penitence? The pandours knew nothing of this 
double mass. They had now searched the whole church, and 
as the king was not to be found, they rushed out in order to 
search the cells, and, indeed, every corner of the cloister. 
The service still continued; the unknown abbot stood be- 
fore the high altar, while Abbot Stusche took the host and 
held it up before the kneeling monks. 

At this moment a wild ery of triumph was heard without; 
then curses and loud laughter. The monks were bowed 
down before the host, and did not seem to hear the tumult. 
They sang and prayed, and now the outcry and noise of strife 
was hushed, and nothing was heard but the faint and dying 
tones of the organ. The pandours had left the cloister; 
they had found the adutant of the king and borne him off 
as a rich spoil to their commander, Colonel von Trenck. 

The soldiers were gone, it was therefore not necessary to 
continue the worship of God. Tobias Stusche repeated a 
pater-noster, gave his hand to the unknown abbot, and they 
turned to leave the church. As they slowly and majestically 
swept through the aisles, the monks bowed their heads in 
reverence; the organ breathed its last grand accord, and the 
glorious sun threw a beckoning love-greeting through the 
lofty windows of painted glass. It was a striking and sol- 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 187 


emn scene, and the unknown abbot seemed strangely im- 
pressed. He paused at the door and turned once more, and 
his glance wandered slowly over the church. 

One hour later the heavy state-coach of the Abbot of 
Clostenberg rolled down from Camens. In the coach sat 
Tobias Stusche with the unknown abbot. They took the 
road to Frankenstein. Not far from the gate the carriage 
stopped, and to the amazement of the coachman, no abbot, 
but a soldier clad in the well-known Prussian uniform, de- 
scended. After leaving the coach, he turned again and 
bowed to the worthy Abbot Stusche. 

“T will never forget this bold and noble act of your ex- 
cellency,” said the king, giving his hand to the abbot. “ You 
and your cloister may at all times count upon my special 
favor. But for your aid, I should this day have been be- 
trayed into a most. unworthy and shameful imprisonment. 
The first rich abbey which is vacant I will give to you, and 
then in all future time I will confirm the choice of abbot, 
which the monks themselves shall make.” * 

“© my God!” exclaimed the abbot, “how rarely must 
your majesty have met with honest and faithful men, if you 
reward so richly a simple and most natural act of love!” 

“Faithful hearts are rare,” said the king. “I have met 
this blue-eyed daughter of Heaven but seldom upon my path, 
and it is perhaps for this reason that her grandeur and her 
beauty are so enchanting to me. Farewell, sir abbot, and 
greet the brother Anastasius for me.” 

“Will not your majesty allow me to accompany you to 
the city?” 

“No, it is better that I go on foot. In a quarter of an 
hour, I shall be there; my carriage and my guard await me, 

te ; ‘ ; 
iemsentpstaned, kenge: ups wriih ion SORM ARE PusNeeh Seteopcrees  tmea ae 
letters still preserved written by the king himself to the abbot, filled with 
expressions of heart-felt kindness and favor. Frederick sent him from 
Meissen a beautiful set of porcelain, and splendid stuff for psa robes, 
and rare champagne wine. While in Breslau, he invited him twice to visit 
him. Soon after the close of the Seven Years’ War, Stusche died. The king 
sent a royal present to the cloister with a request that on the birthday of the - 
abbot a solemn mass should be celeb . Some years later, erick 
sto at Camens, and told the abbot to commission the first monk who 


to bear his lovi ing to the good Abbot Stusche in Paradise.~— 
(See Rodenbeck.) Kestadonigsonaes 


188 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


and I wish no one to be acquainted with the adventures of 
this day. It remains a secret between us for the present.” 

Frederick greeted him once more, and then stepped light- 
ly onward toward the city. The coach of the abbot returned 
slowly to the cloister. 

The king had advanced but a short distance, when the 
sound of an approaching horse met his ear. He stood still 
and looked down the highway. This time the Austrian uni- 
form did not meet his eye; he recognized in the distance the 
Prussian colors, and as the horse approached nearer, he 
marked the uniform of a young officer of his life-guard. 
Before Frederick found time for surprise, the rider had 
reached him, checked his horse with a strong hand, sprang 
from the saddle, bowed profoundly before the king, and 
reached him the reins. 

“Will not your majesty do me the favor to mount my 
horse?” said Trenck, calm and unembarrassed, and without 
alluding by word or smile to the adventure of the day. 

The king looked at him searchingly. “From whence 
come you?” said he sternly. 

“From Glatz, where the pandours carried me as a pris- 
oner, and delivered me to Colonel Trenck.” 

“You were then a prisoner, and were released without 
ransom ?” 

“ Colonel Trenck laughed merrily when his pandours de- 
livered me to him, and declared I was the King of Prussia.” 

“ Oolonel Trenck knows you?” 

“ Sire, I saw him often in my father’s house.” 

“Go on: he recognized you, then?” 

“ He knew me, and said laughingly, he had sent to take 
Frederick, King of Prussia, and not Frederick von Trenck, 
prisoner. I was free, I might go where I wished, and as I 
could not go on foot, he presented me with one of his best 
horses; and now I am here, will not your majesty do me the 
honor to mount this horse?” 

“T mount no Austrian horse,” said the king in a harsh 
tone. 

The young officer fixed his glance for one moment, with 
an expression of regret upon the proud and noble animal, 
who with dilating nostrils, flashing eyes, and impatient 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 189 


stamping of the fore-feet, stood by his side, arching grace- 
fully his finely-formed and muscular throat. But this ex- 
pression of regret soon vanished. He let go the bridle and 
bowing to the king he said, “I am at your majesty’s com- 
mand.” 

The king glanced backward at the noble steed, who, 
slender and graceful and swift as a gazelle, was in a moment 
so far distant as to be no larger than a flying eagle. He. 
then advanced toward Frankenstein: both were silent; 
neither gave another thought to the gallant horse, who, rider- 
less and guided by instinct alone, was far on the way to 
Glatz. Once before they reached the city, the king turned 
and fixed his eyes upon the open, youthful, and handsome 
face of Trenck. 

“T believe it would be better for you if this colonel of 
pandours were not your relation,” said the king thoughtfully; 
“there can no good come to you from this source, but only 
evil.” 

Frederick von Trenck turned pale. “ Does your majesty 
command that I shall change my name?” 

“No,” said the king after a moment’s reflection. “The 
name is a holy inheritance which is handed down from our 
fathers, and it should not be lightly cast away. But be care- 
ful, be careful in every particular. Understand my words, 
and think upon my warning, Baron von Trenck.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE LEVEE OF A DANCER. 


In Behren Street, which was at that time one of the 
most recherché and beautiful streets of Berlin, order and 
quiet generally reigned. To-day, however, an extraordi- 
nary activity prevailed in this aristocratic locality; splendid 
equipages and gallant riders, followed by their attendants, 
dashed by; all seemed to have the same object; all drew up 
before the large and elegant mansion which had for some 


190 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


time been the centre of attraction to all the courtly cavaliers 
of the Prussian capital. Some of the royal princes, the 
young Duke of Wiirtemberg, counts, ambassadors, and gen- 
erals, were to-day entreating an audience. 

Who dwelt in this house? What distinguished person was 
honored by: all these marks of consideration? Why was 
every face thoughtful and earnest? Was this a funeral, and 
was this general gloom the expression of the heart’s despair 
at the thought of the loved and lost? Perhaps the case was 
not quite so hopeless. It might be that a prince or other 
eminent person was dangerously ill! “It must be a man,” 
as no woman was seen in this grand cavaleade. But how ac- 
count for those rare and perfumed flowers? Does a man 
visit his sick friend with bouquets of roses and violets and 
orange-blossoms? with rare and costly southern fruits in 
baskets of gold and silver? This would indeed be a strange 
custom! 

But no! In this house dwelt neither prince nor states- 
man, only a woman. How strange that only men were there 
to manifest their sympathy! In this pitiful and dreary 
world a woman who has made a name for herself by her own 
beauty and talent is never acknowledged by other women. 
Those who owe their rank to their fathers and husbands, are 
proud of this accidental favor of fate; they consider them- 
selves as the chosen, accomplices and judges of morals and 
virtue, and cast out from their circles all those who dare to 
elevate themselves above mediocrity. In this house dwelt 
an artiste—the worshipped prima donna, the Signora Bar- 
barina! 

Barbarina! ah! that was an adored and a hated name. 
The women spoke of her with frowning brows and con- 
temptuous laughter, the men with flashing eyes and bound- 
less enthusiasm; the one despised and abhorred her, even 
as the other exalted and adored her. And truly both had 
cause: the women hated her because she stole from them the 
eyes and hearts of their lovers and husbands; the men wor- 
shipped her as a blossom of beauty, a fairy wonder, a con- 
secrated divinity. 

These two parties were as zealous as the advocates of 
the white and red rose. The women fought under the ban- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 191 


ner of the faded, withered white rose; the men gathered 
around the flag of her glowing sister, the enchanting Bar- 
barina. This was no equal contest, no doubtful result. The 
red rose must conquer. At the head of her army stood the 
greatest of warriors. The king was at the same time Bar- 
barina’s general and subject. The white rose must yield, 
she had no leader. 

Possibly Elizabeth Christine desired to lead the army of 
martyrs; possibly the same rage and scorn swelled in her 
heart which spoiled the peace of other women. But her 
modest and trembling lips betrayed nothing of the secret 
storms of her bosom; her soft and gentle smile veiled her 
shrouded wishes and the hopes there buried in her heart. 
One could scarcely believe that this timid, pious queen could 
worship an earthly object, or yield herself one moment to the 
bare passion of hate. Truly Elizabeth Christine hated no 
one, not even Barbarina—this woman who had given the last 
blow to her tortured heart, and added the passion of jealousy 
to her despised love. Elizabeth Christine was indeed jeal- 
ous, but not in the common way; she felt no scorn, she ut- 
tered no reproach; silent tears and earnest prayers for 
strength were her only speech. 

The king had given her no occasion to complain of his 
love for Barbarina; she did not know that he had ever ap- 
proached her, even spoken to her; she knew, however, with 
what looks and smiles of rapture he gazed upon her, and she 
would joyfully have given her life for one such glance or 
smile. That, however, which was not known to Elizabeth, 
was fully understood by the whole court. It was known that 
more than once the Barbarina had supped with the king at 
the house of General Rothenberg; it was known that the 
king, every time the Barbarina danced, was behind the cur- 
tain, and that he had commanded the court painter, Pesne, 
to paint her portrait, life size, for him. 

Was not this enough to exalt the signora in the eyes of 
every courtier and every diplomatist to the first rank of 
beauty and power? Would they not, indeed, have hastened 
to acknowledge her claims, even had she not been the love- 
liest and most enchanting creature? She was indeed a 
queen, a powerful enchantress. Men struggled for one 


192 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


smile, one glance; they bowed down to all her caprices and 
humors; worship, submission, and obedience were the tribute 
brought by all. Her house was besieged with visits and peti- 
tions as if it were the palace of a fairy queen. Barbarina 
had her court circle, her levees, her retinue.* All her sub- 
jects rendered her a glad and voluntary service, and received 
no other compensation than a gay smile or friendly word. 

All this splendor, consideration, and worship, of which 
she was the shining centre, seemed to make no impression 
upon the heart of the proud*and self-reliant artiste; she 
was accustomed to it, and moved on in silent majesty; her 
whole life had been a triumphant march. Like a summer 
morning glittering in the dew and sunshine, she had had her 
little griefs and tears, but they resembled the dew-drops in 
the flower-cups, shining for a moment like costly diamonds, 
then kissed away by the sun. Barbarina wept when the 
king separated her from her lover, Lord Stuart, and forced 
her to fulfil her contract and come to Berlin. She wept no 
more. Was it because she was too proud? or had the sun of 
royal favor kissed away her tears? 

Barbarina’s tears had ceased to flow, but she smiled 
rarely. She had the grace and imposing beauty of the Ro- 
man, and never forgot that she was a daughter of that proud 
nation who had ruled the world, and, even though disen- 
throned, preserved her majesty and renown. Barbarina was 
a glowing, passionate woman, and passion adorns itself with 
flashing eyes, with a clear and touching pallor and crimson 
lips, but never with the innocent smile and harmless jest. 
She was never heard and. rarely seen to laugh. Laughter 
was not in harmony with her proud beauty, but smiles illu- 
minated and glorified it. She was imperial to look upon; 
but, filled with all sweet charity and gentle grace, womanly 
and tender; with a full consciousness of her power, she was 
humble and yielding. In the midst of her humility she was 
proud, and sure of success and victory; one moment she was 
the glowing, ardent, and yielding woman; the next the 
proud, genial, imposing artiste. Such was Barbarina; an in- 
comprehensible riddle, unsearchable, unfathomable as the 
sea—ever changing, but great in every aspect. 

* Schneider, “ History of the Opera and Opera-Houses in Berlin. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 193 


Barbarina had appeared the evening before, but her 
dance had been interrupted by a sudden indisposition ex- 
actly at the moment when the king appeared in the operas 
house. No one knew that the king had returned from his 
mysterious journey to Silesia; every one believed him to 
be absent, and the ballet had been arranged without any 
reference to him. Frederick arrived unexpectedly, and 
changing his travelling-dress hastened to the opera, no doubt 
to greet the two queens and his sisters. Barbarina was 
seized with indisposition at the moment of the king’s en- 
trance. She floated smilingly and airily over the stage; her 
small feet seemed borne by the Loves and Graces. Sudden- 
ly she faltered, the smile vanished from her lips, and the 
slight blush from her cheek, and with a ery of pain she 
sank insensible upon the floor. 

The curtain fell, and an intermission of a quarter of an 
hour was announced. The king, who was conversing with 
the queen-mother, appeared to take but little interest in this 
interruption, but Baron Swartz approached and announced 
that Signora Barbarina was ill and could not appear again 
during the evening. Frederick gave such an angry ex- 
clamation, that the queen-mother looked up astonished and 
questioning. Elizabeth Christine sighed and turned pale. 
She comprehended the emotion of her husband; guided by 
the instinct of jealousy, she read the king’s alarm and disap- 
pointment, which he tried in vain to hide under the mask of 
scorn. 

“Tt appears to me,” said the king, “that the signora is 
again indulging in one of her proud and sullen moods, 
and refuses to dance because I have returned. I will not 
submit to this caprice; I will myself command her to 
dance.” 

He bowed to the two queens, stepped behind the curtain, 
and advanced to the boudoir of the signora. The door was 
fastened within. The king stood hesitating for a moment; 
he heard the sound of weeping and sobbing—the signora was 


- in bitter pain or sorrow. 


“ She is truly ill,” said he. 
“She has cramp,” suggested Baron Swartz, who had fol- 
lowed the king. 


194 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Frederick turned hastily. “Is that dangerous” he asked, 
in a tone which betrayed his alarm and agitation. 

“ Not dangerous, sire, but the physician who was with her 
has declared that absolute quiet was necessary. Will your 
majesty command that another dancer shall take her place?” 

“No,” said Frederick; “the pas which belongs to Bar- 
barina shall be danced by no other. Salimberri and Astrea 
shall sing an aria and the house be dismissed. Go to their 
majesties and say to them I pray they will excuse me; I only 
came to greet them, and, being much fatigued by my journey, 
I will now retire.” 

Bowing to the baron, the king left the opera-house and 
entered the palace. But in the silence of the night, when all 
_ others slept, the soft tones of his flute melted on the air. 

Barbarina was ill. For this reason her house was be- 
sieged; for this reason every face was clouded. Her ador- 
ers were there begging to see her, and thus find comfort and 
encouragement; each one wished to prove his sympathy by 
some marked attention. They hoped that these glorious 
and costly fruits might win for them a smile of gratitude. 

The reception-room of Barbarina was like a royal con- 
servatory, only the life-giving and dazzling sun was hidden 
from view. Barbarina was in her boudoir, and all these gal- 
lant cavaliers waited in vain for her appearance. It was 
the hour of her levee, the hour when her door was open to 
all who had enjoyed the honor of being presented to her. 
The courtiers stood in groups and conversed in light whis- 
pers over the on-dits of the day, and turning their eyes from 
time to time to the portiére of purple velvet which separated 
them from the boudoir of the signora; from that point must 
the sun rise to illuminate this dusky room. 

But Barbarina came not. She lay upon a white silk 
divan, dressed in the most ravishing négligée of white mus- 
lin, covered with rare and costly lace. She was dreaming 
with open eyes, and arms crossed upon her breast. Those 
flashing eyes were soft and misty; a melancholy expression 
trembled upon her lips. Barbarina was alone. Why should 
she not dream, and lay aside for a while her gracious smiles 
and fiery glance? Of what were those unfathomable eyes 
dreaming? what signified those sighs which burst from her 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 195 


full crimson lips? Did she know herself, or did she wish to 
know? Did she comprehend the weakness of her own 
proud heart, or had she veiled it from herself, ashamed to 
read what was written there? 

At this moment the door opened, and a young girl entered 
—one of those insignificant, gentle, yielding creatures, gen- 
erally found amongst the attendants of an artiste—a téte de 
souffrance, on whom they exhaust their humor, their scorn, 
and their passion; the humble companion, kept in the back- 
ground when blessed with the society of distinguished and 
wealthy adorers. The companion of Barbarina did not suf- 
fer, however, from this hard fate. Shewas Barbarina’s sister, 
and had followed her from tender love to the cold north. The 
signora loved her sister fondly; she was the companion of 
her joys and sorrows; she had no secrets from her, and knew 
that an open ear and judicious counsel were always to be 
found with her little sister Marietta. 

Barabrina lay, still dreaming, upon the divan. Possibly 
she did not know that Marietta stood by her side, and laid 
her hand upon her shoulder. 

“ Sorella,” said she, “ get up; many gentlemen are in the 
saloon, waiting for you.” 

“Let them wait. I will see no one to-day.” 

“Tt is the hour when you are accustomed to receive, 
Sorella, and if you do not come they will think you are still 
unwell.” 

“ Well, let them think so.” 

“They will not only think so, Sorella; they will say so, 
and make malicious comments.” 

“What comments?” said Barbarina, raising herself up; 
“ what comments, Marietta?” 

“Tt was indeed unfortunate that your sickness came upon 
you just as the king appeared,” said Marietta. 

Barbarina’s eyes flashed. “Do you think they will put 
those things together?” said she. “ They will say, perhaps, 
that Barbarina fainted at the unexpected appearance of the 
king; that the joy of seeing him overcame her; is that your 
meaning, Marietta?” 

“Yes, that is my meaning,” said Marietta, in a low tone. 

soienster sprang from the divan, trembling and pallid. 


196. BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“They will mock at and scorn me,” she cried, raising her 
arms to heaven as if to call down the lightning to her aid; 
“ they will say I love this cold king! ” 

“ They will say that, Sorella,” replied Marietta. 

Barbarina seized her hand. “ But you, sister! you will 
not say this; you know that I have sworn to hate him with 
an everlasting hatred. You know that I have put an evil 
spell upon him with my tears; that I never can forgive 
him for the suffering and agony he prepared for me. 
Think, think, Marietta, how much I have wept, how 
much I have endured! My life was like a lustrous May 
morning, a fairy tale of starry splendor; roses and pearls 
were in my path: he has obscured my stars, and changed my 
pearls to tears. Woe to him! woe to him! I have sworn to 
hate him eternally, and Barbarina keeps her oath.” 

“ Yes, you have sworn to hate him, sister, but the world 
is ignorant of your oath and its cause; their eyes are blinded, 
and they strangely mistake your hate for love. They see that 
your glance is clearer, brighter, when the king is by, and they 
know not that it is hate which flashes from your eyes; they 
hear that your voice lightly trembles when you speak to him, 
they do not know that the hatred in your heart deprives 
you of self-control; they see that you dance with more en- 
chanting grace in the king’s presence, they do not under- 
stand that these are instruments of revenge—that you wish 
to crush him by the mighty power of genius, grace, and 
beauty.” 

“Yes, yes! just so,” said Barbarina, breathing painfully; 
“you alone know me, you alone read my heart! I hate, I 
abhor this cold, crucl king, and he richly deserves my hate! 
He may be wise and great, but his heart is ice. It is true, 
he is handsome and exalted; genius is marked on his noble 
brow; his smile is magical, and irradiates his face; his eyes, 
those great, inexplicable eyes, are blue as the heavens and 
unfathomable as the sea. When I look into them, I seem to 
read the mysteries of the great deep, and the raptures of 
heaven. His voice, when he pleads, is like consecrated music; 
when he commands, it is the voice of God in thunder. He 
is great above all other men; he is a hero, a man, and a 
king!” 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 197 


“ And yet you hate him?” said Marietta, with a mocking 
smile. 

Barbarina trembled. Marietta’s question checked her 
glowing enthusiasm; it rang in her ears like the name-call 
in the “ Somnambulist,” and roused her to consciousness. 

“ Yes,” said she, in a low tone, “I hate him, and I will 
ever hate him! If I loved him, I should be the most wretch- 
ed of women—I should despise and curse myself. He has no 
heart; he cannot love; and shame and dishonor rest upon 
the woman who loves and is not beloved. Frederick loves 
nothing but his Prussia, his fame, and his greatness. And 
the world says, that ‘the Barbarina loves him.’ You see that 
is impossible, that can never be. I would rather die than 
love this man without a heart.” 

“ The world is incredulous,” said Marietta; “they cannot 
look into your heart, and you must be silent as to your 
hatred. You dare not say that you fainted yesterday from 
scorn and rage at the sudden appearance of the king.” 

“Think you they will believe that joy overcame me?” 
cried Barbarina, in wild frenzy. “ They shall not believe it; 
it shall not be!” She sprang like an enraged lioness and 
grasped a little stiletto which lay upon her toilet-table, and 
which she had brought as a relic from her beautiful father- 
land. “I will not be mocked at and despised,” cried she, 
proudly, dashing off her gold-embroidered white satin slip- 
per, and raising her foot. 

“Oh! Barbarina, what will you do?” cried Marietta, as 
she saw her take up the stiletto. 

“ This,” said she, significantly, sticking the point of the 
stiletto in the sole of her foot; the blood gushed out and 
covered her stocking with blood. 

Marietta uttered a cry of terror, and rushed to her sister, 
but Barbarina waved her away; the wound and the flow of 
blood had brought relief to her wild nature; she was calm, 
and a ravishing smile disclosed two rows of pearly teeth. 

“Be still, Marietta,” said she, in a commanding tone, 
“the wound is not deep, not dangerous, but deep enough to 
confirm my statement when I declare that, while dancing 
last evening, I wounded my foot upon a piece of glass from 
a broken lamp.” 


198 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ Ah! now I understand you, you proud sister,” cried 
Marietta, looking up gayly. “ You would thus account for 
your swoon of yesterday?” 

“ Yes, and now give me my slipper, and allow me to take 
your arm; we will go into the saloon.” 

“With your bleeding foot, with this open wound?” 

“Yes, with my bleeding foot; however, we had better 
check the flow of blood a little.” . 

The cavaliers who waited for the signora became ever 
sadder and more thoughtful. Barbarina must be indeed ill, 
if she allowed her admirers to wait so long, for she was above 
all the small coquetries of women; they would not go, how- 
ever, till they had news of her, till they had seen her sister. 

At last their patience was rewarded; the portiére was 
drawn back, and Barbarina appeared, leaning upon the arm 
of her sister. She was pale and evidently suffering. She 
walked slowly through the saloon, speaking here and there 
to the cavaliers, and conversing in the gay, gracious, and 
piquant manner in which she excelled. Suddenly, in the 
midst of one of these merry interchanges of thought, in 
which one speaks of every thing or nothing, Barbarina ut- 
tered a cry of pain and sank upon the sofa. 

“T believe, I fear that my foot is bleeding again,” she 
eried. She slightly raised her robe, and lifted up her foot, 
that small object of wonder and rapture to all the lands of 
Europe. Truly her white satin slipper was crimson, and 
blood was flowing freely from it. 

A cry of horror sounded from every lip. The gentlemen 
surrounded Barbarina, who lay pale as death upon the sofa, 
while Marietta knelt before her, and wrapped her foot in 
her handkerchief. This was a striking scene. A saloon 
furnished with princely splendor, and odorous with the rarest 
flowers; a group of cavaliers in their gold-embroidered coats 
and uniforms, glittering with crosses and odors; the signora 
lying upon the divan in a charming négligée, with her bleed- 
ing foot resting upon the lap of her sister. 

“You are wounded, signora, you bleed!” cried the young 
Prince of Wiirtemberg, with such an expression of horror, 
you would have thought he expected the instant death of the 
Barbarina. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 199 


The lovely Italian looked up in seeming surprise. “ Did 
not your highness know that I was wounded? I thought 
you were a witness to my accident yesterday?” 

“ Certainly, I was at the opera-house, as were all these 
gentlemen; but what has that to do with your bleeding 
foot?” 

“ A curious question, indeed! You did not, then, under- 
stand the cause of my swooning yesterday? I will explain. 
I felt a severe pain in the sole of my foot, which passed like 
an electric shock through my frame, and I became insensible. 
While unconscious, my blood, of course, ceased to flow, and 
the physician did not discover the cause of my sudden illness. 
This morning, in attempting to walk, I found the wound.” 

“My God, what a misfortune, what an irreparable blow! ” 
cried the cavaliers with one voice; “we can never again 
hope to see our enchanting dancer.” 

“ Compose yourselves, gentlemen,” cried Barbarina, smil- 
ing, “my confinement will be of short duration, and will 
have no evil consequences. I stepped upon a piece of glass 
which had fallen upon the boards, and piercing the slipper 
entered my foot; the wound is not deep; it is a slight cut, 
and I shall be restored in a few days.” 


“ And now,” said Barbarina, with a triumphant smile, as 
she was once more alone with her sister, “no one will mock 
at me and make malicious comments upon my fainting. In 
an hour the whole city will hear this history, and I hope it 
may reach the ears of the king.” 

“He will not believe it,” said Marietta, shrugging her 
shoulders; “he sent immediately for your physician and 
questioned him closely as to your sudden indisposition in the 
theatre. I had just left your boudoir to get you a glass of 
water, and when I returned I found the king standing before 
your door and listening to your groans.” 

A wondrous expression of light and peace shone in her 
great black eyes. “ The king was then behind the curtains, 
he stood before my door, he wished to speak to me, and you 
tell me this now, only now, when you might have known—” 
Barbarina paused, and turned away her blushing face. 

“ Well, I might have known that the king, whom you hate 


200 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


so bitterly, had waited in vain at your door, had been turned 
away by the proud dancer as a common man; this was, in- 
deed, a triumph of revenge,” said Marietta, smiling. 
. “I did not turn him away,” said Barbarina, with em- 
barrassment. 
“No! you drew your bolt on the inside, nothing more.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


THE STUDIO. 


BARBARINA was right; the wound in her foot was not dan- 
gerous. She was ordered to be quiet for some days, and give 
up dancing. The physician to whom she showed her foot, 
and declared that she had only just discovered the cause of 
her sudden swoon, examined the wound with an incredulous 
smile, and asked to see the shoe, the sole of which must also 
be necessarily cut, he said; in this way only could he tell if 
the wound had been inflicted by a piece of glass or nail, and 
know the size and sharpness of the instrument. Barbarina 
blushed, and ordered Marietta to bring the shoe; she re- 
turned immediately with a slipper, showing a sharp cut in 
the sole. The physician examined it silently, and then 
declared that it was a piece of glass which had caused the 
fainting of the signora; he ordered cooling applications and 
perfect quiet, and promised restoration in a few days. 

The king had commanded the physician to come to him 
immediately after his visit to Barbarina. He was an- 
nounced, and as he entered, Frederick advanced to meet him. 

“Well,” said he, “is the wound dangerous? will the 
signora be obliged to give up the stage?” 

“ Ah, surely your majesty cannot believe that the Bar- 
barina has given herself a wound which will destroy her 
fame and fortune!” 

“T do not understand you,” said Frederick, impatiently; 
“do not speak in riddles.” 

“T repeat, your majesty, the signora would not intention- 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 901 


ally have wounded her foot seriously, and thereby destroyed 
her art.” 

“Do you believe that she wounded herself voluntarily?” 

“T am convinced of it, sire. The signora declares that 
she stepped upon a piece of glass. I desired to see the slip- 
per; Marietta brought me one, in the sole of which I dis- 
covered a cut, but it did not correspond a all with the 
wound in the foot, and had been evidently just made with 
a knife. Certainly Barbarina was not wounded while she 
wore that shoe; moreover, I affirm that the ound was not 
inflicted by a piece of glass or a nail, but by a stiletto; the 
wound is three-sided; I am confident she wounded herself 
with a stiletto I saw in her room.” 

The king’s face grew dark while the physician spoke; -he 
pressed his lips together: this was ever a sign that a storm 
was raging in his breast which he wished to control. 

“Ts that all you have to say?” 

“ That is all, sire.” 

“Good! You will visit the signora to-morrow, and bring 
me news of her.” 

The king was alone, and pacing his room nervously. It 
was in vain that Biche, his favorite hound, raised herself 
up and drew near to him. The wise little animal seemed, in- 
deed, to understand the sadness of her master, and looked 
up at him with sorrowful and sympathetic eyes. Once 
Frederick murmured half aloud: “ She has sworn to hate me, 
and she keeps her oath.” After long thought, he seemed to 
be resolved, and drew near to the door; he opened it and 
stood a moment on the threshold, then closed it again, and 
said: “ No! I dare not do that. I dare not do what any other 
man might do in my place; not I—I am a king. Alas! men 
think it is a light matter to be a king; that the crown brings 
no care, no weight to the brow and the heart. Our hearts’ 
blood is often the lime with which our crowns are secured.” 
He sighed deeply, then stood up and shook himself like a 
lion, when, after a long repose, he rouses himself to new life 
and action. “Oh! I am sentimental,” he said, with a sad 
smile. “I doubt if a king has a right to dream. Away, 
then, with sentiments and sighs! Truly, what would Maria 
Theresa say if she knew that the King of Prussia was a 


202 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCT; OR, 


sentimentalist, and sighed and loved like a young maiden? 
Would she not think she had Silesia again in her dress- 
pocket?” 

While the king struggled with his passion, Barbarina had 
a far more dangerous enemy to contend with. Sentimental- 
ity is veiled in melancholy, in softened light and faded tints; 
but ennui has no eye, nor mind, nor heart for any thing. 
It is a fearful enemy! Barbarina was weary, oh, so weary! 
Was it perhaps impatience to appear again upon the stage 
which made the hours so leaden, so long drawn out? She 
lay the whole day stretched out upon her sofa, her eyes wide 
open, silent, and sighing, not responding to Marietta’s loving 
words by a glance, or a movement of the eyelash. Marietta 
proposed to assemble her friends, but she affirmed that so- 
ciety was more wearisome than solitude. 

At the end of three days, Barbarina sprang from her 
sofa and tried to walk. “It gives me no pain,” said she, 
walking through the room. 

“Yes, I remember, Arias said the same as she handed the 
dagger to her beloved,” replied Marietta. 

“But I have no beloved,” said Barbarina; “no one loves 
me, no one understands this poor, glowing, agonized heart.” 
As she said this, a flood of tears gushed from her eyes, and 
her form trembled with a storn of passion. 

“ Ah, Sorella, how can you say that—you who are so 
much loved, so highly prized?” 

Barbarina smiled contemptuously, and shook her head. 
“Do you call that love? these empty words, this everlasting, 
unmeaning praise; this rapture about my beauty, my grace, 
and my skill, is this worship? Go, go, Marietta, you know it 
is not love, it is not worship. They amuse themselves with 
a rare and foreign flower, which is only beautiful because it 
has been dearly paid for; which is only wondered at while it 
is rare and strange. You know, not one of these men loves 
me for myself; they think only of my outward appearance. 
I am never more solitary than when they surround me, never 
feel so little beloved as when they swear that they love me 
boundlessly. O my God! must I shroud my heart, must I 
bury it under the snows of this cold north? O God, give me 
a heart for my heart, that can love as Barbarina loves!” 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 903 


She covered her face with her hands, and her tears flowed 
freely; she trembled and bowed from side to side, like a lily 
in a storm. 

Marietta drew near, and laid her head upon her sister’s 
shoulder; she did not try to comfort her: she knew there 
were griefs to which words of consolation were exasperation ; 
she knew that passion must exhaust itself before it could be 
soothed. She comprehended the robility and energy of 
Barbarina’s nature; those bursts of tears were like clouds in 
the tropics; the storm must break, and then the sun would 
shine more gloriously. Marietta was right. In a short 
time her sister withdrew her hands from her face; her tears 
were quenched, and her eves had their usual lustre. 

“Tam mad,” she cried, “ worse than mad! I ask of the 
north our southern blossoms. I demand that their ice shall 
become fire. Has not a landscape of snow and ice its grand- 
eur and beauty—yes, its terrible beauty when inhabited by 
bears and wolves?” 

“But woe betide us, when we meet these monsters!” 
said Marietta, entering readily into her sister’s jest. 

“Why woe betide us? Every danger and every monster 
can be overcome, if looked firmly in the face, but not too 
long, Marietta, not till your own eye trembles. Now, sister, 
enough oi this; the rain is over, the sun shall shine. I am 
no longer ill, and will not be laid aside like a broken play- 
thing. I will be sound and healthy; I will flap my wings and 
float once more over the gay world.” 

“Do you know, Sorella, that the higher you fly, the 
nearer you are to heaven?” 

“T will soar, but think not, that like Icarus I will fasten 
my wings with wax. No, I am wiser, I will fly with my feet; 
the sun has no power over them: they are indeed two suns. 
They warm the coldest heart; they set the icy blood in mo- 
tion, they almost bring the dead to life. You see, sister, I 
have adopted the style of speech of my adorers; none of 
them being present, I will worship and exalt myself.” 

Barbarina said all this merrily, but Marietta felt this 
gayety was not natural. 

“Do you know what I have determined upon?” said 
Barbarina, turning away, so that her face might not be seen; 


204 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCT; OR, 


“as I cannot dance either to-day or to-morrow, I will find 
some other mode of employing my time. I will go to Pesne 
and sit for my portrait.” 


She had turned away, but Marietta saw that her throat 


was suffused with a soft flush. 

“Will you drive to the palace?” said Marietta. 

“Not to the palace, but to Pesne.” 

“ Pesne’s studio is now in the palace; the king appointed 
him rooms there.” 

“Well, then, I must sit to him in the palace.” 

“ This, however, will be disagreeable to you; you abhor 
the king, and it will be painful to be under the same roof. 
You perhaps suppose the king to be in Potsdam: he is now 
in Berlin.” 

Barbarina turned suddenly, and throwing her arms 
around Marietta’s neck, she pressed a kiss upon her lips, and 
whispered: “I know it, Marietta, but I must go.” 

The sisters went therefore to the new studio of the 
painter Pesne, which was in the royal palace. The king took 
great pleasure in the growth and development of works of 
art. While Pesne was engaged on his great picture of Diana 
and her Nymphs, the king often visited his studio and 
watched him at his work. He had closely examined the 
sketch of the portrait of Barbarina, and, on, his return from 
Silesia, commanded Pesne to arrange a studio in the castle, 
as he wished to be near him. 

Barbarina sprang like a gazclle up the steps; her foot 
was not painful, or she was unconscious of it. She was im- 
patient, and would scarcely wait to be announced before en- 
tering the room. Pesne was there, and welcomed the signora 
joyfully. Barbarina looked about in vain for her portrait. 

“Has misfortune overtaken the portrait as well as the 
original?” she said, smiling. 

“Not so, signora,” said Pesne; “the portrait excites as 
great a furor as the original—only, though, because it is a 
copy.” 

“T do not understand you.” 

“T mean, that his majesty is so enraptured with the copy, 
that since yesterday it has been placed in his study, although 
I protested against it, the picture not being finished. The 


- 
ae 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 905 


king, however, persisted; he said he wished to show the 
portrait to his friends, and consult with them as to its de- 
fects.” 

Never, in her most brilliant réle, was Barbarina so beauti- 
ful as at this moment: her countenance glowed with rapture; 
her happy smile and glance would have made the homeliest 
face handsome. 

“ Then I have come in vain,” she said, breathing quickly; 
“you can make no use of me to-day?” 

“No, no, signora! your face is a star seldom seen in my 
heaven, and I must grasp the opportunity—have the kind- 
ness to wait; I will hasten to the king and return with the 
picture.” 

Without giving Barbarina time. to answer, he left the 
room. Why did her heart beat so quickly? Why were her 
cheeks suffused with crimson? Why were her eyes fixed so 
nervously upon the door. Steps were heard in the adjoining 
room. Barbarina pressed her hands upon her heart: she was 
greatly agitated. The door opened, and Pesne returned, 
alone and without the picture. 

“Signora,” said he, “the king wishes that the sitting 
should take place in his rooms; his majesty will be kind 
enough to make suggestions and call my attention to some 
faults. I will get my palette and brush, and, if agreeable to 
you, we will go at once.” 

Barbarina gave no reply, and became deadly pale, as she 
walked through the king’s rooms; her steps were uncertain 
and faltering, and she was forced to lean upon Pesne’s arm; 
she declared that her foot was painful, and he perhaps be- 
lieved her. 

They reached at last the room in which the portrait was 
placed. There were two doors to this room: the one through 
which they had entered, and another which led to the study 
of the king. This door was closed, and Barbarina found 
herself alone with the painter. 

“The king has yet some audiences to give; he com- 
manded me to commence my work. As soon as he is at 
liberty, he will join us.” 

“Tet us begin, then,” said Barbarina, seating herself. 
“You must allow me to-day to be seated. I think it can 


206 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


make no difference to you, as you are at present Mai hn 
with my face and not with my figure.” 

Pesne declared, however, that this attitude gave an en- 
tirely different expression and bearing to the countenance. 
Barbarina must, therefore, in spite of the pain in her foot, 
endeavor to stand. She appeared now to feel no pain; she 
smiled so happily, she spoke so joyously, that Pesne, while 
gazing at her animated, enchanting, lovely face, forgot that 
he was there to paint, and not to wonder. Suddenly her 
smile vanished, and she interrupted herself in the midst of 
a gay remark. She had heard the door behind her lightly 
opened; she knew, by the stormy beating of her heart, that 
she was no longer alone with the painter; she had not the 
courage or strength to turn; she was silent, immovable, and 
stared straight at Pesne, who painted on quietly. The king 
had motioned him not to betray him. 

Pesne painted on, from time to time asked Barbarina the 
most innocent and simple questions, which she answered con- 
fusedly. Perhaps she was mistaken; possibly she was still 
alone with the painter. But no, that was impossible, it 
seemed to her that a stream of heavenly light irradiated the 
room; she did not see the king, but she felt his glance; she 
felt that he was behind her, that he was watching her, al- 
though no movement, no word of his betrayed him. 

“T will not move, I will not turn, but I cannot endure 
this, I shall fall dead to the earth.” 

But now she was forced to turn; the king called her 
name, and greeted her with a few friendly words. She 
bowed and looked up timidly. How cold, indifferent, and 
devoid of interest was his glance, and he had not seen her 
for weeks, and she had been ill and suffering! And now, she 
felt again that she hated him bitterly, and that it was the 
power of this passion which overcame her when she saw 
the king so unexpectedly. She felt, however, that every 
tone of his voice was like heavenly music to her ear, that 
every word he uttered moved her heart as the soft wind 
ruffles the sea. 

The king spoke of her portrait; he said he had made it his 
study and sought for its faults and defects, as others sought 
for its advantages and beauties. 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 207 


“T tremble, then, before the judgment of your majesty,” 
said Pesne. 

“IT must confess you have some cause to fear,” said the 
king. “I have not looked at the picture with the eye of a 
lover, but with that of a critic; such eyes look sharply, and 
would see spots in the sun; no criticism, however, can pre- 
vent the sun from shining and remaining always a sun, and 
my fault-finding cannot prevent your portrait from being a 
beautiful picture, surpassed only by the original.” 

“Perhaps, sire, I am myself one of the spots in the sun, 
and it may be that I grow dark.” 

“You see, signora, how little I understand the art of 
flattery; even my best intended compliments can be readily 
changed into their opposites. Allow me, then, to speak the 
simple, unadorned truth. You are more beautiful than your 
picture, and yet I wonder at the genius of Pesne, which has 
enabled him to represent so much of your rare loveliness, 
even as I wonder at the poet who has the power to describe 
the calm beauty of a sunny spring morning.” 

“That would be less difficult than to paint the signora’s 
portrait,” said Pesne; “a spring morning is still, it does not 
escape from you, it does not change position and expression 
every moment.” 

Frederick smiled. “It would be truly difficult to hold 
the butterfly and force it to be still without brushing the 
down from its beautiful wings. But, paint now, Pesne, I 
will seat myself behind your chair and look on.” 

Pesne seized his palette and brush, and began to paint. 
Barbarina assumed the light, gracious, and graceful attitude, 
which the artist has preserved for us in her beautiful por- 
trait. She was, indeed, indescribably lovely; her rounded 
arms, her taper fingers, which slightly raised the fleecy robe 
and exposed the fairy foot, the small aristocratic head, slight- 
ly inclined to one side, the flashing eyes, the sweet, attractive 
smile, were irresistible; every one admired, and every glance 
betrayed admiration. 

The face of the king only betrayed nothing; he was cold, 
quiet, indifferent. Barbarina felt the blood mount to her 
cheek, and then retreat to her heart; she felt that it was 
impossible for her to preserve her self-control; she could 


908 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


not bear this cruel comparison of the portrait and the 
original, but she swore to herself that the king should not 
have the triumph of seeing her once more sink insensible at 
his feet; his proud, cold heart should not witness the out- 
break of her scorn and wounded vanity. But her body was 
less strong than her spirit—her foot gave way, she tottered, 
and turned deadly pale. 

The king sprang forward, and asked in a sympathetic and 
trembling voice why she was so pale; he himself placed a 
chair for her, and besought her to rest. She thanked him 
with a soft smile, and declared she had better return home. 
Would the king allow her to withdraw? A cloud passed 
over Frederick’s face; a dark, stern glance rested upon Bar- 
barina. 

“No!” said he, almost harshly; “you must remain here, 
we have business with each other. Swartz has brought me 
your contract to sign; it requires some changes, and I 
should have sent for you if accident had not brought you 
here.” 

“Your majesty can command me,” said Barbarina. 

“We have business and contracts to consider,” said the 
king roughly, “ and we will speak of them alone. Go, Pesne, 
and say to Swartz I await him.” 

Frederick nodded to the painter, and, seizing Barbarina’s 
hand, led her into the adjoining room, his Tusculum, never 
before profaned by a woman’s foot; open only to the king’s 
dearest, most trusted friends. 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE CONFESSION. 


BARBARINA entered this room with peculiar feelings; her 
heart trembled, her pulses beat quickly. She, whose glance 
was usually so proud, so victorious, looked up now timidly, 
almost fearfully, to the king. He had never appeared to her 
so handsome, so imposing as in this moment. Silently she 


a 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 209 


took her place upon the divan to which he led her. Frederick 
seated himself directly in front of her. 

“This is the second time,” said the king, with a smile, 
“the second time, signora, that I have had the honor to be 
alone with you. On the first occasion you swore to me that 
you would hate the King of Prussia with an everlasting 
hatred.” 

“T said that to your majesty when I did not recognize 
you,” said Barbarina. 

“Had you known me, signora, you would surely not have 
spoken so frankly. Unhappily, the world has silently re- 
solved never to speak the truth to kings. You avowed your 
resolution, therefore, at that time, because you did not know 
you were speaking to the king. Oh, signora, I have not for- 
gotten your words. I know that you pray to God every day; 
not for your own happiness, as all chance of that has been 
destroyed by this cruel king; but for revenge on this man, 
who has no heart, and treads the hearts of other men under 
his feet.” 

“Your majesty is cruel,” whispered Barbarina. 

“Cruel! why? I only repeat your words. Cruel, be- 
cause I cannot forget! The words of Barbarina cannot be 
forgotten. In that respect at least I am like other men.” 

“ And in that respect should your majesty the least re- 
semble them. The little windspiel may revenge its injuries, 
but the eagle forgives, and soars aloft so high in the heavens 
that the poor offender is no longer seen and soon forgot- 
ten. Your majesty is like the eagle, why can you not also 
forget?” 

“T cannot and I will not! I remind you of that hour, be- 
cause I wish to ask now for the same frankness of speech. | 
I wish to hear the truth once more from those proud lips. 
Barbarina, will you tell me the truth?” 

“Yes, on condition that your majesty promises to forget 
the past.” 

“T promise not to remind you of it.” 

“T thank your majesty; I will speak the truth.” 

“You swear it?” 


“T swear it.” 
“ Well, then, why did you wound your foot?” 


210 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Barbarina trembled and was silent; she had not the 
courage to raise her eyes from the floor. 

“The truth!” said the king, imperiously. 

“ The truth,” repeated Barbarina, resolved, and she raised 
her flashing eyes to the king; “I will speak the truth. I 
wounded my foot, because—” 

“ Because,” said the king, interrupting her fiercely, “ be- 
cause you knew it was a happiness, a life’s joy to the poor, 
lonely, wearied king to see you dance; because you felt that. 
your appearance was to him as the first golden rays of the © 
sun to one who has been buried alive, and who bursts the 
bonds of the dark grave. You hate me so unrelentingly, 
that even on the evening of my return from an exhausting 
and dangerous journey, you cruelly resolved to disappoint 
me. I hastened to the theatre to see you, Barbarina, you, 
you alone; but your cruel and revengeful heart was without. 
pity. You thought of nothing but your pride, and rejoiced 
in the power to grieve a king, at the sound of whose voice 
thousands tremble. Your smiles vanished, your enchanting: 
gayety was suppressed, and you seemed to become insensible. 
With the art of a tragedian, you assumed a sudden illness, 
resolved that the hated king should not see you dance. Ah! 
Barbarina, that was a small, a pitiful réle! leave such arts. 
to the chambermaids of the stage. You are refined in your 
wickedness; you are inexorable in your hate. ‘Not satisfied 
with this pretended swoon, the next evening you wounded 
yourself; you were proud to suffer, in order to revenge your- 
self upon me. You knew that a swoon must pass away, but 
a wounded foot is a grave accident; its consequences might 
be serious. The king had returned to Berlin, and had only 
a few days to refresh himself, after the cares and exhaustions: 
of a dangerous journey; after his departure you would be 
able to dance again. Ah! signora, you are a true daughter 
of Italy; you understand how to hate, and your thirst for 
vengeance is unquenchable! Well, I give you joy! I will 
fill your heart with rapture. You have sworn to hate me; 
you pray to God to revenge you upon the King of Prussia 
who has trampled your heart under his feet. Now, then,. 
Barbarina, triumph! you are revenged. The king has a 
heart, and you have wounded it mortally!” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 211 


Completely unmanned, the king sprang to his feet, and 
_ stepped to the window, wishing to conceal his emotion from 
Barbarina. Suddenly he felt his shoulder lightly touched, 
and turning, he saw Barbarina before him, more proud, more 
beautiful, more queenly than he had ever seen her; energy 
and high resolve spoke in her face and in her flashing eyes. 
“Sire,” she said, in a full, mellow voice, which slightly 
trembled from strong emotion—* sire,” she repeated, trying 
to veil her agitation by outward calm, “I have sworn in this 
hour to speak the truth; I will fulfil my vow. I will speak 
the truth, though you may scorn and despise me. I will die 
of your contempt as one dies of a quick and deadly poison; 
but it is better so to die than to live as I am living. You shall 
know me better, sire. You have charged me with falsehood 
and hypocrisy; thank God, I can cast off that humiliating 
reproach! I will speak the truth, though it bows my head 
with shame and casts me at your feet. If I could die there, 
I would count myself most blessed. The truth, sire, the 
truth! listen to it. It is true I hated you; you humbled my 
pride. You changed me, the queen of grace and beauty, the 
queen of the world, into a poor, hired dancer; with your 
rude soldiers and police you compelled me to fulfil a con- 
tract against which my soul revolted. I cursed you. You 
separated me violently from the man I loved, who adored me, 
and offered me a splendid and glorious future. It is true I 
prayed to God for vengeance, but He would not hear my 
prayer; He punished me for my mad folly, and turned the 
dagger I wildly aimed at you, against my own breast. Sire, 
the hate to which I swore, to which I clung as the ship- 
wrecked mariner clings to the plank which may save him 
from destruction, failed me in the hour of need, and I sank, 
sank down. A day came in which the prayer of rage and 
revenge upon my lips was changed, in spite of myself, into 
blessings, and I found, with consternation and horror, that 
there was indeed but one step between wild hatred and pas- 
sionate love, and this fatal step lies over an abyss. I can- 
not tell you, sire, how much I have suffered—how vainly I 
have struggled. I have hated, I have cursed myself because 
I could no longer hate and curse you. The day you left for 
Silesia, you said, ‘I think ever of thee.’ Oh! sire, you 
14 


212 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


know not what fatal poison you poured into my ears, with 
what rapture and enchantment these words filled my heart. 
My life was a dream; I stood under a golden canopy, drunk 
with joy and blessed with heavenly peace. I saw these 
words, ‘I think ever of thee,’ not only in my heart, but in 
every flower, on every leaf, and written by the sun in the 
heavens, and in the stars. I dreamed of them as one dreams 
of fairy palaces and heavenly melodies. In the songs of 
sweet birds, in the plaudits and bravos with which the world 
greeted me, I heard only these celestial words, ‘I think ever 
of thee.’ I lived upon them during your absence, I wrote 
them with my glances upon your empty chair in the theatre, 
I fixed my eyes upon it, and for love of you I danced to it. 
One night I saw in this chair, not only my golden starry 
words, I saw two stars from heaven; I was not prepared— 
their glance was fatal. No, sire, that was no miserable 
comedy, no actor’s work. I sank unconscious, and from that 
hour I know one does not die from rapture, but sinks in- 
sensible. I wept the whole night, God knows whether from 
shame or bliss, I cannot tell. The next day—-yes—then I 
was false and deceitful. I stuck my stiletto in my foot, to 
- deceive the world; only God might know that the Barbarina 
fainted at the sight of the king—fainted because she felt 
that she no longer hated, but worshipped him.” 

She rushed to the door, but Frederick sprang after her; 
he drew her back, madly but silently; his eyes were radiant 
with joy. 

“ Remain,” said he; “I command you—I, not the king.” 
He placed his lips to her ear and whispered two words: her 
soft cheeks were crimson. 

At this moment there was a knock upon the door, the . 
portiére was thrown back, and the wan, suffering face of 
‘Fredersdorf was seen. 

“Sire,” said he, “ your majesty commanded me to sum- 
mon Baron Swartz; he is here, and waits for your orders.” 

“Tet him enter,” said the king; then smiling upon Bar- 
barina, he said, “ He comes just in time; we must sign our 
contract, Swartz shall act as our priest.” 

He advanced to meet the intendant, and asked for the 
eontract between. Barbarina and himself. He read it cere- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 9213 


fully, and said, “ There are only a few things to alter.” He 
stepped to his desk and added a few words to the con- 
tract. 

“ Signora,” said he, turning backward, “will you come 
here for a moment?” 

Barbarina, embarrassed and blushing, drew near. In the 
back part of the room stood Baron Swartz, watching the 
king and Barbarina with a sly smile; near him stood Fre- 
dersdorf, whose pale and melancholy face was brought out in 
strong relief by the dark velvet portiére. 

“ Read this,” said the king to Barbarina, pointing to the 
words he had just written. “ Have you read?” 

“Yes, sire.” 

Frederick raised his head, and slightly turning, his glow- 
ing glance rested upon Barbarina, who, ashamed and con- 
fused, cast her eyes to the ground. 

“Will you sign this?” 

“T will, sire,” said she, almost inaudibly. 

“You bind yourself to remain here for three years, and 
not to marry during that time?” * 

“T do, sire.” 

“Take the pen and sign our contract.—Come forward, 
Swartz, and witness this document.—Fredersdorf, is your 
seal at hand?” 

The contract was ready. 

“You will say, ‘ This is a sad contract,’” said the king, 
turning to Fredersdorf. 

“Yes, sad indeed. The king deals as cruelly with the 
Barbarina as he has done with his poor secretary. This cold 
king does not believe in marriage.” 

“No, no! Fredersdorf, I will prove to you that you are 
mistaken. I have been told that you are ill because I will 
not allow you to marry. Now, then, Fredersdorf, I will not 
be hard-hearted. I have to-day made an innocent sacrifice 
to my hatred of matrimony. The signora has bound herself 
not to marry for three years. For her sake, I will be gra- 
cious to you: go and marry the woman you love, and when 

* By this contract, Barbarina received an income of seven thousand tha- 


lers and five months’ liberty during each year; but she was bound not te 
marry during this term of three years.—_SounEIDER. 


214 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


the priest has made you one, you shall take your wife te 
Paris for the honeymoon, at my cost.” 

Fredersdorf seized the hand of the king, kissed it, and 
covered it with his tears. Barbarina gazed at the handsome, 
glowing face of Frederick with admiration. She understood 
him fully; she felt that he was happy, and wished all around 
him to partake of his joy. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE TRAITOR. 


BARON VON POLLNITZ was iil at ease; for three days he 
had sought relief diligently, but had no alleviation. He 
found himself in the antediluvian condition of our great 
forefather Adam, while he loitered away his time in Para- 
dise. Like Adam, Pollnitz had no gold. Our good baron 
found this by no means a happy state, and his heart was full 
of discontent and apprehension; he felt that he was, indeed, 
unblessed. What would become of him if the king should 
not be merciful, should not take pity upon his necessities, 
which he had to-day made known to him in a most touching 
and eloquent letter. Up to this time he had been waiting in 
vain for an answer. What should he do if the king should 
be hard-hearted and cruel? But no, that was impossible; he 
must consider it a sacred duty to take care of the old and 
faithful servant of his house, who had been the favored com- 
panion of two of Prussia’s kings. Pdéllnitz considered 
that he belonged to the royal family; he was an adopted 
member; they could not think slightingly of him, or set him 
aside. 

He had exhausted his means, he had borrowed from Jew 
and Christian; he had, by his gay narratives and powers of 
persuasion, drawn large sums of gold from the rich burghers}; 
all his friends held his dishonored drafts; even his own 
servant had allowed himself to be made a fool of, and had 
loaned him the savings of many years; and this sum scarcely 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 9215 


sufficed to maintain the noble, dissipated, and great-hearted 
cavalier a few weeks. 

Alas! what sacrifices had he not already made to this 
insane passion for spending money; what humiliation had 
he not suffered—and all in vain! In vain had he changed 
his religion three times; he had condescended so far as 
to pay court to a merchant’s daughter; he had even wished 
to wed the daughter of a tailor, and she had rejected 
him. 

“ And yet,” said he, as he thought over his past life, 
every thing might have gone well, but for this formidable 
stratagem of the king; this harsh prohibition and penalty 
as to relieving my necessities which has been trumpeted 
through the streets—that ruined me; that gave me fearful 
trouble and torment. That was refined cruelty for which I 
will one day revenge myself, unless Frederick makes amends. 
Ha! there comes a royal messenger. He stops at my door. 
God be thanked! The king answers my letter; that is to say, 
the king sends me money.” 

Polinitz could searcely restrain himself from rushing out 
to receive the messenger; his dignity, perhaps, would not 
have sufficed to hold him back, but the thought of the con- 
siderable douceur he would be expected to pay moderated his 
impatience. At last his servant came and handed him a 
letter. 

“T hope,” said the baron, gravely, “I hope you rewarded 
the king’s messenger handsomely ? ” 

“ No, sir, I gave him nothing.” 

“Nothing!” cried he angrily. “And you dare to say 
this to my face! you do not tremble lest I dismiss you in- 
stantly from my service? you, and such as you are, cast 
shame upon our race! I, a baron of the realm, and grand 
master of ceremonies, allow a royal messenger who brings 
me a letter to go from my door unrewarded! Ass, if you 
had no money, why did you not come to me? why did you 
not call upon me for several ducats?” 

“Tf your grace will give me the money, I will run after 
the messenger. I know where to find him; he has gone to 
General Rothenberg’s.” 

“Leave the room, scoundrel, and spare me your folly! ” 


216 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Péllnitz raised his arm to strike, but the lackey fled and 
left him alone with his golden dreams of the future. 

He hastily broke the seal and opened the letter. “ Not 
from the king, but from Fredersdorf,” he murmured im- 
patiently. As he read, his brow grew darker, and his lips 
breathed words of cursing and scorn. 

“ Refused!” said he passionately, as he read to the end, 
and cast the letter angrily to the floor. “Refused! The 
king has no money for me! The king needs all his gold for 
war, which is now about to be declared; and, if I wish to 
convince myself that this is true, I must go to-night, at 
eleven o’clock, to the middle door of the castle, and there I 
will see that the king has no money. A curious proposition, 
indeed! I would rather go to discover that he had money, 
than that he had it not. If he had it, I would find a means to 
supply myself. At all events, I will go. A curious rendez- 
vous indeed—a midnight assignation between a bankrupt 
baron and an empty purse! A tragedy might grow out of it. 
But if Frederick has really no money, I must seek elsewhere. 
I will make a last attempt—lI will go to Trenck.” 

The trusty baron made his toilet and hastened to Trenck’s 
apartments. The young officer had lately taken a beautiful 
suite of rooms. He had his reception-rooms adorned with 
costly furniture and rare works of art. He had an ante- 
chamber, in which two richly-liveried servants waited to 
receive his orders. He had a stable and four splendid 
horses of the Arabian breed, and two orderlies to attend to 
them! From what quarter did Trenck obtain the money 
for all this livery? This was an open question with which 
the comrades of the young lieutenant were exercised; it 
gave them much cause for thought, and some of them were 
not satisfied with thinking; these thoughts took form, some 
of their words reached the ears of Trenck, and must have 
been considered by him very objectionable. He challenged 
the speaker to fight with the sword, and disabled him effectu- 
ally from speaking afterward.* Trenck was at dinner, and, 
contrary to custom, alone; he received Pdllnitz most gra- 
ciously, and the baron took a seat willingly at the table. 

“T did not come to dine with you, but to complain of 


* Frederick von Trenck’s Memoires, 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 917 


you,” said Péllnitz, cutting up the grouse with great adroit- 
ness and putting the best part upon his plate. 

“You come to complain of me?” repeated Trenck, a 
little embarrassed. “I have given you no cause for dis- 
pleasure, dear friend.” 

“Yes, you have given me good cause, even while I am 
your best friend! Why have you withdrawn your con- 
fidence from me? Why do I no longer accompany you on 
that most romantic midnight moonlight path to virtue? 
Why am I no longer watchman and duenna when you and 
your lady call upon the moon and stars to witness your love? 
Why am I set aside?” 

“T can only say to all this that I go no more upon the 
balcony.” 

“That is to say—” 

“That is to say that my stars are quenched and my sun 
has set in clouds. I am, even as you are, set aside.” 

Poéllnitz gazed at Trenck with so sharp and cunning an 
eye that the young man was confused and looked down. The 
baron laughed merrily. 

“ Dear Trenck,” said he, “a lie shows in your face like a 
spot on the smooth skin of a rosy apple. You are too young 
to understand lying, and I am too old to be deceived by it. 
Another point: will you make me believe that this luxury 
which surrounds you is maintained with your lieutenant’s 
pay?” 

“You forget that my father has left me his property of 
Sherlock, and that I have rented it for eight hundred 
thalers! ” 

“T am too good an accountant not to know that this sum 
would scarcely suffice for your horses and servants.” 

“Well, perhaps you are right; for the rest I may thank 
my gracious king. During the course of this year he has 
presented me with three hundred Fredericks d’or; and now 
you know the source of my revenue and will not think so 
meanly of me as to suppose that—” 

“That your great love has any thing to do with earthly 
riches or advancement. I do not believe that I brought in 
such a charge against you, even as little do I believe that you 
have been given up! Ah, dear friend, I alone have cause of 


218 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


complaint; I alone am set aside, and why am I thus treated ? 
Have I not been discreet, diligent in your service, and ready 
at all times?” 

“Certainly. I can only repeat to you that all is at an 
end. Our beautiful dream has faded like the morning cloud 
and the early dew.” 

“You are in earnest?” 

“In solemn earnest.” 

“Well, then, I will also speak earnestly. I will relate to 
you something which you do not appear to know. <A garden- 
er boy who had risen earlier than usual to protect some rare 
flowers in the garden of Monbijou saw two figures upon the 
baleony, and heard their light whispers. The boy made 
known his discovery to the principal gardener, and he com- 
municated the facts to the chamberlain of the queen-mother. 
It was resolved to watch the balcony. The virtuous and 
suspicious queen immediately concluded that Mademoiselle 
von Marwitz had arranged a rendezvous upon the balcony, 
and she was sternly resolved to dismiss the lady at once if 
any proof could be obtained against her. Happily, the queen 
made known these facts to the Princess Amelia, and I can 
readily conceive that the baleony remains now unoccupied.” 

“Yes, I understand that.” 

“You can also understand that this event was regarded as 
a warning of fate, and great caution and- forethought were 
exercised. Not only was the balcony given up, but the old 
friend and confidant who had played the part of com- 
panion and carrier-pigeon was banished and a wholly 
From service.’ 

“You may go further still,” said Frederick von Trenck. 
“You have not stated the whole case. This fortunate provi- 
dence was a convincing proof of the danger of an engage- 
ment which might never hope to be crowned with success, 
never exist except under the shadows of silence and gloom, 
with bleeding hearts and tearful eyes; this dream of love 
was given up at once, fearing that at no distant day both 
honor and liberty might be lost in its pursuit. They sep- 
arated! An eternal farewell was faltered!” 

“That is to say, you would now deceive your confidant 
and former aid, in order to place yourself more securely— 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 219 


and some day, perhaps, when suspicion is aroused, you can 
call him as a witness to prove that all intercourse was long 
ago given up; he must know it, being the confidant from the 
beginning. This was a well-conceived plot, but you only 
seem to forget that Péllnitz was not the man to be deceived. 
He has had too much experience, and has studied the hearts 
of men, and especially of women, too diligently. A woman 
who is enjoying her first love and believes in its holy power, 
convinces herself that it can achieve wonders and overcome 
all obstacles. She does not sacrifice her love to other duties 
or to danger, not even if she is a common woman, far less 
if she is a princess. Princess Amelia has not given up her 
_ young and handsome lover; she clings to him with a frenzied 
constancy, which I confess to you, if I had the honor and 
glory of being her suitor, would fill me with apprehension 
and regret. No, no, the princess is just now in a paroxysm 
of youthful passion, and would rather die than resign her 
love, and she is fantastic enough to believe in the possibility 
of a legitimate marriage! Poor thing, she expects to mould 
the world to her wishes, and arms herself, I suppose, with 
hair-pins! Princess Amelia was forced to give up her inter- 
views upon the balcony, but she sought other means to 
gratify her passion. This was simple and easy to do. The 
maid of honor was taken into her confidence. Marwitz swore 
to guard the secret fearfully till death; a plan was then ar- 
ranged with her which was truly well conceived. Lieuten- 
ant von Trenck must be spoken of as the suitor of Made- 
moiselle von Marwitz; he must act at the court-balls and 
fétes as the tender, sighing, and eager lover of the maid of 
honor; he must at last make a formal declaration, and re- 
ceive permission to visit her in her rooms. This is now his 
daily habit, and the good city of Berlin and the short-sighted, 
silly court are completely deceived, and look upon Frederick 
von Trenck as the happy bridegroom of Marwitz, and no one 
guesses that when the young officer is with the maid of 
honor, the Princess Amelia is also present, and changes the 
role with Marwitz.” 

“T see it is in vain,” said Trenck, sighing; “you know 
all: but if you have any real friendship for me, you will tell 
me who betrayed us.” 


220 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Poéllnitz laughed aloud. “You betrayed yourself, my 
friend; or, if you prefer it, my worldly wisdom and cunning 
betrayed you. My young and innocent friend, a man like 
Pollnitz is not easily deceived; his eyes are sharp enough to 
pierce the veil of the most charming little intrigue, and 
probe it to the bottom! I know the Princess Amelia; I 
have known her too long, not to know that she would not so 
quickly, and without a struggle, sacrifice her love; and 
further when I saw at the last court-ball, with what a long 
and dreary face you stood behind the chair of the poor 
Marwitz, and with what calm and smiling content the prin- 
cess watched the couple amoureuse, look you, Trenck, then I 
knew and understood all.” 

“ Well, then, as you understand all, I make no further at- 
tempt to deceive you. Yes, God be praised! the princess 
loves me still. It is indeed the princess whom I meet in the 
apartment of the maid of honor; to Marwitz are the letters 
directed which my servant carries every morning to the pal- 
ace, and from the Princess Amelia do I receive my answers. 
Yes, God be thanked! Amelia loves me, and one day she will 
be mine in the eyes of the whole world, even as she is now 
mine in the eyes of God and the angels; one day—” 

“Stop, stop!” cried Péllnitz interrupting him; “ that 
last sentence must be explained before you rush on with 
your dithyrambics. You have declared that the princess is 
yours in the sight of God: what does that mean?” 

“That means,” said Trenck, “that God, who looks into 
our hearts, knows the eternity and boundlessness of our love; 
that means that, under God’s heaven, and calling upon His 
holy name, we have sworn never to forget our love and our 
faith, and never to form any other alliance.” 

“So nothing more than that—no secret marriage? Are 
you never alone with the princess?” 

“No, never! I have given her my word of honor never 
even to ask it, and I will keep my oath. And, after all, the 
good Marwitz disturbs us not; she gets as far from us as 
possible: she seems to see us not, and we speak in such low 
tones, that she does not hear a word we utter.” 

“ Ah! so the Marwitz does not disturb you?” cried Poll- 
nitz, with a cynical laugh. “Osancta simplicitas! and this 


—* eS 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 991 


is an officer of the life-guard? The world is going to destruc- 
tion; or it is becoming innocent and pure as Paradise. It 
is time for me to die; I no longer understand this pitiful 
world.” 

“T do not understand you, and I will not understand you,” 
said Trenck gravely. “ You laugh at me, and call me a silly 
boy, and I allow it. I know we cannot understand each 
other in such matters; you cannot conceive what strength, 
what self-denial, what energy I exert to make myself worthy 
of the pure, modest, and exalted love which Amelia has 
consecrated to me. You cannot comprehend how often my 
good and evil genius struggle for the mastery, how often I 
pray God to keep me from temptation. No, I have sworn 
that this love shall wave pure and unblemished, like a glori- 
ous banner over my whole life; come death rather than dis- 
honor! And now, friend, explain your meaning: why al 
these plots and counterplots? What is your object?” 

“ Nothing more than to warn you to prudence. I do not 
believe all the world is deceived by your comedy with Mar- 
witz. The king, who appears to see nothing, sees all. He 
has his spies everywhere, and knows all that happens in his 
family. Be careful, be ever on your guard.” 

“ T thank you for your warning,” said Trenck, pressing 
the hand of the master of ceremonies. “‘ We must soon sep- 
arate; you know that in a few weeks we go to Silesia. The 
king is silently preparing for war.” 

“T know it, and I pity you.” 

“Pity me! Ah, you do not understand me. I long for 
my first battle as a lover does for his first sweet kiss. The 
battle-field is for me a consecrated garden, where my laurels 
and myrtles grow. I shall pluck them and weave wreaths for 
my bride—wedding wreaths. P®éllnitz, on the other side, 
beyond the bloody battle-ground, lies my title of prince, and 
Amelia’s bridle-wreath.” 

“ Dreamer, fantastic, hopeless dreamer!” cried Péllnitz, 
laughing. “ Well, God grant that you do not embrace death 
on the battle-field, or on the other side find a prison, to either 
of which you have a better claim than to a prince’s title. 
Make use, therefore, of your time, and enjoy these charming 
interviews. Is one arranged for this evening?” 


222 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“No, but to-morrow. The reigning queen gives a ball 
to-morrow. Immediately before the ball I am to meet the 
princess. Oh, my friend, to-morrow evening at five think of 
me! I shall be the happiest and most amiable of mortals. 
I shall be with my beloved! ” 

“ Alas! how strange is life, and how little do the fates of 
men resemble! To-morrow, at the hour when you will be so 
unspeakably happy, I shall be walking in a thorny, a cursed 
path; I shall be on my way to the usurer.” 

“To the usurer? That is indeed a sad alternative for a 
cavalier like the Baron von Pollnitz.” 

“ But that is still better than imprisonment for debt, and 
I have only the choice between these two, unless you, dearest 
friend, will take pity upon me and lend me a hundred louis 
d’ors.” 

Frederick Trenck said nothing. He stepped to his desk. 
The eyes of the baron glittered with joy as he saw Trenck 
take out a pocket-book, in which he knew by pleasant ex- 
perience that the young officer sometimes kept gold. His 
joy was of short duration. No gold was seen. Trenck took 
out a small, modest, unsealed paper and handed it to him. 

“ Look at this draft,” said he. “ Had you come yesterday 
I could have accommodated you joyfully. To-day it is im- 
possible. I have this morning lent my colonel two hundred 
ducats, and my purse is empty.” 

“Well, you must soon fill it,” said Pollnitz, with a coarse 
laugh. ‘“ To-morrow at five you will enjoy your rendezvous, 
and you will not only speak of God, and love, and the stars, 
but also a little of earthly things—of pomp and gold, and— 
Farewell! ” 

With a gay laugh Pdollnitz took leave, but he no sooner 
found himself alone upon the street than his face grew black 
and his eye was full of malice. 

“He has no gold for me, but I have his secret, and I will 
know how to squeeze some gold out of that,” murmured Poll- 
nitz. “Truly I think this secret of Trenck’s is worth some 
thousand thalers, and the king must find the means to pay 
for it. But stop! The hour of my interesting rendezvous 
draws near. I‘am curious to know how I am to be convinced 
at eleven o’clock, and in the middle of the street, that the 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 993 


king has no gold. I will be punctual, but I have still time to 
visit a few friends, and seek if possible to win a few louis 
d’ors at faro.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 
THE SILVER-WARE. 


It was a dark, still night. As the clock struck ten the 
night might really be said to begin in Berlin. The streets 
were not lighted except by accidental rays from the windows 
and the carriage-lamps, and the glare of torches carried by 
the servants who accompanied their masters to places of 
amusement. By eleven o’clock the streets were deserted. 
Péllnitz was therefore sure to meet no one on his way to the 
castle. He directed his steps to that door which opened upon 
the River Spree, as Fredersdorf had advised him. 

Silence reigned in the palace. The sentinel stepped slow- 
ly backward and forward in the courtyard, and in the distance 
was heard the baying of two hounds, entertaining each other 
with their melancholy music. The master of ceremonies be- 
gan to be impatient; he thought that the impertinent private 
secretary had been indulging in some practical joke or mysti- 
fication at his expense; but as he drew near to the Spree, he 
heard the light stroke of oars in the water. Pdéllnitz has- 
tened forward, and his eyes, accustomed to the darkness, 
discovered a skiff drawn up near the Elector’s Bridge. 

“This is the point! here we must wait,” whispered a 
manly voice. 

“T think we will not have to wait long,” said another. 
“T see lights in the windows.” 

The side of the castle next the Spree was now suddenly 
lighted; first the upper story, then the lower, and a pale 
light was now seen in the vestibule. 

“Truly, I have not been deceived; something is going 
on,” said Péllnitz, hastening forward. 

As he entered the court, a curious train was seen descend- 
ing the steps. In front were two servants with torches; they 


294 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCT; OR, 


were followed by twelve heyducks, their shoulders weighed 
down with dishes, cans, cups, plates, whose silver surface, 
illumined by the golden glare of the torches, seemed to 
dance and glimmer along the wall and steps like “ will o’ the 
wisps.” ‘Two servants with towels brought up the rear, and 
behind these the pale, sad face of Fredersdorf was seen. 

“You are punctual,” said he to Péllnitz; “you wish to 
convince yourself that the king has no gold?” 

“Certainly! though this conviction will deprive me of 
my last hope, and one does not adopt such a course eagerly.” 

“T think you will be fully convinced. Come, let us fol- 
low the heyducks.” 

He took the arm of the baron, and they soon reached the 
border of the Spree. The large skiff, which had been lying 
so dark and still, was now lighted by the torches of the ser- 
vants, who ranged themselves on each side; it was brilliantly 
lighted, and great activity prevailed. The twelve heyducks, 
bending under their heavy burden, entered the skiff, and 
piled up the silver-ware, then sprang again ashore. 

“We are going to the treasure-room, will you follow us?” 
said Fredersdorf. 

“Certainly; if not, you may perhaps expect to leave me 
here as sentinel.” 

“That is not at all necessary; dliere are some soldiers 
with loaded muskets in the skiff. Come.” 

Silently and hastily they all mounted the steps and 
reached at last the large room where the royal silver had 
been kept; the door was open, but guarded by sentinels, and 
Melchoir, who had had the silver in charge, now walked be- 
fore the door with a disturbed and sad visage. 

“May I enter, Melchoir?” said Péllnitz to his old ac- 
quaintance, greeting him with a friendly smile. 

“There is no necessity to ask,” said Melchoir, sadly. 
“My kingdom is at an end, as you see, when the silver is 
gone; there is no necessity for a steward, and the old Mel- 
choir will be set aside, with all those who yet remain of . 
the good old times of the ever-blessed Frederick William! ” 

Péllnitz entered the room with Fredersdorf, and his eye 
wandered over the rich treasures spread out before him, and 
which the heyducks were now packing in large sacks. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 295 


“ Oh, if these plates and dishes could speak and converse 
with me, what curious things we would have to confide with 
each other! ” said Péllnitz, twirling one of the plates between 
his fingers. “How often have I dined from your rich abun- 
dance! Under the first pomp-and-splendor-loving Frederick, 
you furnished me with gala dinners; under the parsimonious 
Frederick William, with solid family dinners! How often 
have I seen my smiling face reflected in your polished sur- 
face! how often has this silver fork conveyed the rarest 
morsels to my lips! I declare to you, Fredersdorf, I think a 
dinner plate fulfils a noble mission; within its narrow bound 
lie the bone and sinew, as also the best enjoyments of life. 
But tell me, for God’s sake, how can you bear that these 
rascals should handle the king’s silver so roughly? Only 
look, now, at that heyduck, he has completely doubled up 
one of those beautiful salad-bowls, in order to force it into 
the mouth of the sack.” 

“ What signifies, dear baron? That said salad-bowl will 
never again be used for salad, henceforth it is only silver.” 

“You speak in riddles, and I do not understand you. 
Well, well, those fellows have already filled their twelve 
sacks, and this room is now as empty and forlorn as the heart 
of an old bachelor. Now tell me what you are going to do 
with all these treasures?” 

“Can you not guess?” 

“T think the king, who now lives in Potsdam, needs his 
silver service, and as he does not wish to make a new pur- 
chase, he sends to Berlin for this. Am I right?” 

' You shall soon know. Let us follow the heyducks, the 
room is empty. Adieu, Melchoir, your duties will be light 
hereafter; you need not fear the robbers. Come, baron.” 

They soon reached the skiff, and found that the twelve 
sacks had been placed beside the huge pile of dishes, 
plates, ete. 

“ Alas!” said Fredersdorf, gloomily, “ all this might have 
been avoided if I had already reached the goal I am aiming 
at; if I had fathomed the great mystery which God has sus- 
pended over mankind, upon whose sharp angles and edges 
thousands of learned and wise men have dashed their brains 
and destroyed their life’s happiness! My God! I have ac- 


926 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCT; OR, 


complished so much, so little remains to be done! let me only 
find a sufficiently hardened substance, and the work is done. 
I shall have laid bare God’s great mystery—I shall make 
gold!” 

“Do you think ever of this, Fredersdorf ? ” 7 

“T think ever of this, and shall think only of this as long 
as I live. This thought swallows up all other thoughts; it 
has destroyed my love, my rest, my sleep, my earthly happi- 
ness! But wait, Péllnitz, only wait; one day I shall lift the 
philosopher’s stone, and make gold. On that day you will 
love me dearly, Baron Péllnitz. On that day I will not be 
obliged to prove to you, as I have just done, that the king has 
no money.” 

“T have seen no proof yet,” said Péllnitz. 

“ You shall have it now, baron,” said Fredersdorf, spring- 
ing into the skiff. “Will you not go with us? Forward, 
forward at once! ” 

“But what is your destination?” 

“Come nearer, that I may whisper in your ear.” 

Péllnitz bowed his head. 

“We are going to the mint,” whispered Fredersdorf. 
“All this beautiful silver will be melted. The king will 
give no more dinners, he will give battle. The king changes 
his dishes and plates into good thalers to feed his brave 
army. And now, are you not convinced that the king has 
no money to pay your debts?” 

“IT am convinced.” 

“Then farewell. Take the rudder, boys, and go forward; 
enter the arm of the Spree which flows by the mint, and 
there anchor. The mint is our goal.” 

“The mint is the goal,” murmured Pdollnitz, with a grim 
look, gazing after the skiff, which moved slowly over the 
water, and which, lighted by the torches, shone brilliantly in 
the midst of the surrounding darkness. The golden light, 
playing upon the rich liveries of the heyducks and the tower 
of silver in their midst, formed a scene of wonder and en- 
chantment. 

Pollnitz watched them until the torches seemed like little 
stars in the distance. “There go all the pomp and glory 
of the world, the joys of peace and luxurious rest. The 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 997 


silver will be melted, iron and steel will take its place. Yes, 
the iron age begins. Alas! it begins also for me—why can- 
not I go into the mint and be melted down with these plates 
and dishes?” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE FIRST FLASH OF LIGHTNING. 


DurinG this night Péllnitz slept but little; when, how- 


-ever, he rose from his couch the next morning, his brow was 


clear and his countenance gayer than it had been for a long 
time; he had made his plans, and was convinced that he 
would succeed. 

“T will earn a hundred ducats, said he, smiling to him- 
self, as in a superb toilet he left his dwelling, “yes, a hun- 
dred ducats, and I will revenge myself upon the king for 
that trumpeting and outcry. This shall be a blessed and 
beautiful morning.” 

He walked first to the apartment of Colonel Jaschinsky, 
and announced himself as coming upon most important busi- 
ness. The colonel hastened to meet him, ready to be of 
service, and full of curiosity. 

“Lead me to a room where we are absolutely certain not 
to be observed or listened to,” said Péllnitz. 

They entered the colonel’s cabinet. 

“ Here, baron, we are secure.” 

“ Without circumlocution, then, count, you know the law 
which forbids officers to make debts?” 

“T know it,” said Jaschinsky, turning pale, “and I be- 
lieve that Baron Péllnitz is well content not to belong to the 
officers.” 

“Perhaps you, sir count, may also cease to belong to 
them ?” 

“What do you mean by that?” said Jaschinsky, anx- 
iously. 

“T mean "eT ee that Colonel Jaschinsky belongs to those 

5 


228 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


officers who are forbidden to make debts, but that he disre- 
gards the law.” 

“ You came here, as it appears, to threaten me?” ! 

“No, principally to warn you; you know that the king is 
particularly severe against his body-guard. You are the 
colonel of this splendid regiment, and should, without doubt, 
set the other officers a good example. I doubt if the king 
would consider that you did your duty, if he knew that you 
not only made debts, but borrowed money from the officers 
of your own regiment.” | 

“Take care, Baron von Pdollnitz!” said Jaschinsky, 
threateningly. 

Péllnitz said, smilingly: “It appears that you are menac- 
ing me, that is wholly unnecessary. Listen quietly to what 
I have to say. I have come to arrange a little matter of 
business with you. Day before yesterday you borrowed two 
hundred ducats from Baron Trenck. Give me one hundred 
of them, and I give you my word of honor not to expose you 
—deny me, and I give you my word of honor I will go in- 
stantly to the king, and relate the whole history. You know, 
count, you would be instantly cashiered.” 

“T do not know that his majesty would grant a ready 
belief to the statement of Baron Pollnitz, and you have no 
proof to confirm it.” 

“T have proof. You gave your note for the money. I 
think that would be convincing testimony.” 

The count was pale and agitated. “If I give you a hun- 
dred ducats, you promise on your word of honor not to ex- 
pose me to the king?” 

“T give you my word of honor; more than that, I prom- 
ise you to defend you, if any one shall accuse you to the 
king.” 

Jaschinsky did not reply; he stepped to his desk and 
took out two rolls of ducats. “ Baron,” said he, “here is 
half of the money I borrowed from Trenck; before I hand it 
to you I have one request to make.” 

“Well, speak.” 

“ How did you learn that I borrowed this money?” 

“T saw your note which you gave to Trenck.” 

“ Ah! he showed it to you,” cried Jaschinsky, with such 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 999 


an expression of hate, scorn, and revenge, that even Péllnitz 
was moved by it. 

He took the gold and let it slide slowly into his pocket. 
“TI owe you a hundred ducats; I cannot promise you to re- 
turn them; but I can promise you that Trenck will never 
produce your draft, and I will show you how to revenge 
yourself upon the handsome officer.” 

“Tf you assist me in that, I will present you with my 
best horse.” 

“ You shall be revenged,” said Péllnitz, solemnly. “ You 
can send the horse to my stable; Frederick von Trenck will 
soon cease to be dangerous to any one; he is a lost man!— 
And now to the king,” said Péllnitz, as he left the colonel’s 
quarters. “Yes, to the king; I must thank him for the 
confidence he showed me last night.” 

The king was making his preparations for war with the 
most profound secrecy; he worked only at night, and gave 
up his entire time seemingly to pleasures and amusements. 
He was daily occupied with concerts, balls, operas, and bal- 
lets; he had just returned from seeing the rehearsal of a 
new opera, in which Barbarina danced; he was gay and 
gracious. 

He received his master of ceremonies jestingly, and 
asked him if he came to announce that he had become a Jew. 
“You have tried every other religion at least twice; I know 
that you have had of late much to do with the ‘chosen 
people;’ I suppose you are now full of religious zeal, and 
wish to turn Israelite. It would, perhaps, be a wise opera- 
tion. The Jews have plenty of gold, and they would surely 
aid with all their strength their new and distinguished 
brother. Speak, then, make known your purpose.” 

“T come to thank your majesty for the supper you gra- 
ciously accorded me last night.” 

“ A supper! what do you mean?” 

“Your majesty, through your private secretary, invited 
me to table, with all your splendid silver-ware. Truly the 
meal was indigestible and lies like a stone upon my stomach; 
but, I say with the good soldiers, after the lash, ‘I thank 
your majesty for gracious punishment.’ ” 

“You are an intolerable fool; but mark me, no word of 


230 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


what you have seen. I wished to prove to you that I had no 
money, and to be freed from your everlasting complaints 
and petitions. I have therefore allowed you to see that my 
silver has gone to the mint. It is to be hoped that you will 
now compose yourself, and seek no more gold from me. Do 
not ask gold of kings, but of Jews! Kings are poor, the 
poorest people of the state, for they have no personal prop- 
erty.” * 

“Oh, that the whole world could hear the exalted and 
high-hearted words of my king!” cried Péllnitz, with well- 
acted enthusiasm. ‘“ Thrice blessed is that nation which has 
such a ruler! ” 

The king looked at him searchingly. “ You flatter me; 
you want something, of course.” 

“No, sire, I swear I come with the purest intentions.” 

“Intentions? You have, then, intentions?” 

“Yes, sire, but now that I stand here face to face with 
you, I feel that my courage fails, and I cannot speak what I 
intended.” 

“Now truly,” said the king, laughing, “the circum- 
stances must indeed be dangerous which deprive Baron Pdll- 
nitz of the power of speech.” 

“Words, your majesty, are important things. Once a 
few words saved me from death; it may be that a few words, 
spoken this day to your majesty, may bring me into disfavor, 
and that would be worse than death.” 

“ What were the words which saved you from death?” 

“These, sire: ‘Va-t-en, noble guerrier !’” 

“This took place in France?” 

“Tn Paris, sire. I was dining in a small hotel in the 
village of Etampes, near Paris. A very elegant cavalier sat 
next me and from time to time, as if accidentally, addressed 
me in a refined and winning way; he informed himself as to 
my intentions and circumstances. I was an inexperienced 
youth, and the cavalier was adroit in questioning. This was 
at the time of the Mississippi speculation of the great finan- 
cier Law. I had gained that day, in the Rue Quinquempois, 
the sum of four hundred thousand franes. I had this money 


* The king’s own words. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 931 


with me, and after dinner I proposed to go to Versailles. 
I was not without apprehension, the streets were unsafe, and 
Cartouche with his whole band of robbers had for some time 
taken possession of the environs of Paris, and made them the 
theatre of his daring deeds.” 

“So you received your new friend trustingly?” said the 
king, laughing heartily. 

“ Yes, sire, and we had just agreed as to the hour of our 
departure, when a little maiden appeared under the window 
of our dining-room and sang in a loud, clear voice, ‘ Va-t-en, 
noble guerrier!’ The strange cavalier rose and stepped to 
the window to give her a few sous, then went out—and I 
saw him no more.” 

“ And you conclude from this that the words of the song 
saved your life? you think that the man with whom you were 
eating was a poisoner?” 

“T thought nothing, sire, and forgot the adventure. A 
year after, I was standing in the street as Cartouche was 
being led to execution. All Paris was abroad to see the 
famous brigand. I had a good place, the procession passed 
immediately by me, and look you, I recognized in the poor 
sinner now being led to execution, the elegant gentleman of 
the cabaret at Etampes! He knew me also and stood still 
fora moment. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I dined with you a year ago. 
The words of an old song gave me notice to leave the cabaret 
immediately. They announced to me that the pursuers were 
on my heels; your star was in the ascendant, stranger; had 
I accompanied you to Versailles, you would have lost your 
gold and your life.’ Your majesty will now understand that 
these words, ‘ Va-t-en, noble guerrier,’ saved my life.” 

“TI confess it, and I am now most curious to hear the 
words which you fear will bring my displeasure upon you.” 

“Sire, I have been for more than forty years a faithful 
servant of your exalted house. Will you not admit this?” 

“Faithful?” repeated Frederick; “you were faithful to 
us when it was to your advantage: you deserted us when 
you thought it to your interest to do so. I reproached you 
with this in former times, but now that I know the world 
a I forgive you. Go on, then, with your pathetic ap- 


232 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“Your majesty has often commanded me to make known 
to you every thing which the good people say of your royal 
family, and when any one dared to whisper a slander against 
you or yours, to inform you of it at once.” 

“Does any one dare to do that?” said the king, with an 
expression of anguish upon his noble face. 

“ Yes, sire.” 

The king breathed a heavy sigh, and walked hastily up 
and down; then placing himself before the window, and 
turning his back on Pollnitz, he said, “ Go on.” 

“ Sire, it is lightly whispered that the young Lieutenant 
Trenck has dared to love a lady who is so far above him in 
her bright radiance and royal birth, that he should not dare 
to lift his eyes to her face except in holy reverence.” 

“T have been told that he was the lover of Mademoiselle 
von Marwitz,” said the king. 

“The world and the good Berliners believe that, but the 
initiated know that this pretended love is only a veil thrown 
by the bold youth over a highly traitorous passion.” 

Poéllnitz was silent; he waited for the king to speak, and 
watched him with a malicious smile. Frederick still stood 
with his face to the window, and saw nothing of this. 

“Shall I go on?” said Péllnitz at last. 

“T command you to do so,” said the king. 

Pollnitz drew nearer. “ Sire,” said he, half aloud, “ allow 
me to say what no one knows but myself. Baron Trenck 
visits Mademoiselle von Marwitz every day, but a third per- 
son is ever present at these interviews.” 

“ And this third person is—” 

“The Princess Amelia!’ 

The king turned hastily, and the glance which he fixed 
upon Péllnitz was so flashing, so threatening, that even the 
bold and insolent master of ceremonies trembled. “ Are 
you convinced of the truth of what you have stated?” said 
he harshly. 

“ Sire,” said he, “if you wish to convince yourself, it is 
only necessary to go this evening between five and six o’clock, 
unannounced, into the rooms of the Princess Amelia. You 
will then see that I have spoken truth.” 

Frederick did not reply; he stepped again to the window, 








i iret 2 ie 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 9233 


and looked silently into the street. Once more he turned to 
Péllnitz, and his face was clear and smiling. 

“ Pollnitz, you are an old fox; but you have laid your 
foundation badly, and your whole plot is poorly conceived. 
Look you! I understand this intrigue perfectly. You hate 
poor Trenck; I have long seen that. You hate him because 
I honor and promote him, and you courtiers always regard 
those as your enemies who stand higher in favor than your- 
selves. Trenck deserves his good fortune, in spite of his 
youth; he is a learned and accomplished officer, and a most 
amiable and elegant gentleman. You cannot forgive him 
for this, and therefore you accuse him. This time you shall 
not succeed. I tell you I don’t believe one word of this silly 
scandal. I will forget what you have dared to say; but look 
to it, that you also forget. Woe to you if you do not forget; 
woe to you if your lips ever again utter this folly to me 
or to any other person! I hold you wholly responsible. In 
your own mad, malicious brain is this fairy tale conceived; 
it will be your fault if it goes farther, and is ever spoken of. 
Conform yourself to this, sir, and retreat in time. I re- 
peat to you, I hold you responsible. Now go, without a word, 
and send me my adjutant—it is high time for parade.” 

“Flashed in the pan, completely flashed,” said Péllnitz to 
himself, as with a courtly bow and a smiling lip he took leave 
of the king. “I had hoped at least for a small reward, if it 
was only to see that I had made him angry. Alas! this man 
is invulnerable; all my files wear away on him.” 

Could he have seen what an expression of care and an- 
guish overshadowed the king’s face when he was alone—could 
he have heard the king’s sighs and the broken words of sor- 
row and despair which he uttered, the wicked heart of the 
master of ceremonies would have been filled with gladness. 
But Frederick indulged himself in this weakness but a short 
time; he drew his royal mantle over his aching heart, he 
cast the veil of sadness from his eyes, and armed them with 
the might of majesty. 

“This rendezvous shall not take place; this romantic ad- 
venture shall come to an end. I will it!” said he, with an 
energy which only those can feel whose will is law, and from 
whose words there is no appeal. 


234 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Frederick took his hat and entered the vestibule, where 
his staff awaited to accompany him to the parade. The king 
greeted them all sternly, and, passing by them rapidly, he de- 
scended the steps. 

“The king is very ungracious,” whispered the officers 
amougst each other. “Woe to him upon whom his anger 
falls to-day!” 

A storm-cloud did indeed rest upon the brow of the king; 
his eye looked fierce and dangerous. The regiment stood in 
line, the king drew up in front; suddenly he paused, his face 
grew black—his eye had found an object for destruction. 

“ Lieutenant Trenck,” said he, in a loud and threatening 
tone, “ you have this moment arrived, you are again too late. 
I demand of my officers that they shall be punctual in my 
service. More than once I have shown you consideration, 
and you seem to be incurable. I will now try the power of 
severity. Colonel Jaschinsky, Lieutenant Trenck is in 
arrest, till you hear further from me; take his sword from 
him, and transport him to Potsdam.” 

The king passed on; the cloud had discharged itself; his 
brow was clear, and he conversed cordially with his generals. 
He did not give one glance to the poor young officer, who, 
pale and speechless, handed his sword to his’ malicious 
colonel, looked with anguish inexpressible toward the castle 
of Monbijou, and followed the two officers whose duty it was 
to conduct him to Potsdam. 

That afternoon Mademoiselle von Marwitz waited in vain 
for her lover; that afternoon the Princess Amelia shed her 
first tears; and, for the first time, entered the ballroom by 
the side of her royal mother, with dejected mien and weary 
eyes. The glare of light, the sound of music, the laugh and 
jest of the gay crowd, filled her oppressed heart with in- 
describable woe. She longed to utter one mad ery and rush 
away, far away from all this pomp and splendor; to take 
refuge in her dark and lonely room; to weep, to pray, and 
thus exhaust her sorrow and her fears. 

Perhaps the king read something of this fierce emotion in 
the face of the princess. He drew near to her, and taking 
her hand kindly, he led her away from her mother. “ My 
sister,” he said, in a low voice, but in a tone which made the 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 9235 


heart of the princess tremble, “ my sister, banish the cloud 
from your brow, and call the smiles to your young, fresh lips. 
It ill becomes a princess to be seen at a féte with a sad 
visage; melancholy, this evening, will be particularly un- 
seemly. Be on your guard; you must not decline a single 
dance; I wish this as your brother, I command it as your 
king. Conform yourself to this. Do you understand fully 
all that I have said to you, and all that I have not said?” 

“T understand all, your majesty,” whispered Amelia, with 
the greatest difficulty keeping back the tears, which, “like 
a proud river, peering o’er its bounds,” filled her eyes to 
overflowing. 

Princess Amelia danced the whole evening, she appeared 
gay and happy; but it did not escape the watchful eye of 
the Baron Péllnitz, that her smile was forced and her gayety 
assumed; that her eye wandered with an expression of terror 
toward the king, who was ever observing her. Suddenly all 
was changed, and she became radiant with the fire of youth 
and happiness. Mademoiselle von Marwitz, while the prin- 
cess stood near her in the Francaise, had whispered: “ Com- 
pose yourself, your royal highness, there is no danger. He 
has been arrested for some small military offence, that is 
all!” Here were indeed peace and comfort. Amelia had 
been tortured by the most agonizing fears, and this news was 
like a messenger of peace and love. A military offence— 
that was a small affair. A few days of light confinement, 
and he would return; she would see him again; and those 
blessed interviews, those glorious hours of rapture, would be 
renewed. 

The princess had deceived herself. Several days elapsed, 
and Trenck did not return, and she knew nothing more than 
that he was in Potsdam, under arrest. Eight days had 
passed on leaden wings, and still he came not. This severe 
punishment for a small offence began to be resented by 
Trenck’s comrades; they did not dare to murmur, but their 
countenances were clouded. 

“ Colonel Jaschinsky,” said the king, on the ninth morn- 
ing, “go to Trenck and counsel him to ask for my forgive- 
ness; say to him, that you believe I will forgive him, if he 
asks for pardon. You shall not say this officially, only as a 


236 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


- friend. Remark well what he shall answer, and report it to 
me strictly.” 

The colonel returned in an hour, with a well-pleased 
smile. 

“Well, will he ask for forgiveness?” said the king. 

. “No, your majesty; he asserts that for a small fault he 
has been too harshly punished, and he will not bow so low 
as to plead against an injustice.” 

' “Let him remain in arrest,” said Frederick, dismissing 
Jaschinsky. 

The king was alone; he walked up and down with his 
arms folded, as was his custom, when engaged in deep 
thought. “A head of iron, a heart of fire!” murmured he; 
“both so young, so proud, so fond, and all this I must de- 
stroy. I must pluck every leaf from this fair blossom. Sad 
mission! Why must I cease to be a man, because I am a 
king?” 

Eight days again went by—eight days of fétes, concerts, 
balls. The princess dared not absent herself; she appeared 
nightly in costly toilet, with glowing cheeks, and her lovely 
hair adorned with flowers, but her cheeks were rouged, and 
her sad smile accorded but little with her flowers. 

The king had carried on diligently but secretly his prepa- 
rations for war, under the shadow of these luxurious festivi- 
ties. Now all was ready; he could lay aside his mask and 
his embroidered dress, and assume his uniform. The ball- 
room was closed, the music silenced, the silver melted into 
thalers. The king left Berlin and joined his generals at 
Potsdam. On the day of his arrival he commissioned his ad- 
jutant, General von Borck, to release Trenck from arrest, 
and send him to Berlin with a letter to the queen-mother; 
he was to have leave of absence till the next day. 

“T will see, now, if they understood me,” said Frederick 
to himself. “I have given them a hard lesson; if they do 
not profit by it, they are incurable, and force me to ex- 
tremity.” 

Alas! they had not understood this hard lesson; they 
were not wise, not prudent; they would not see the sharp 
sword suspended over their heads: their arms were madly 
thrown around each other, and they did not grasp this only 


a 





== ~*~ TL =a ee eO”,.)—SM oro te Oe ee 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 9237 


anchor of safety which the fond brother, and not the stern 
king, had extended to them. They were lost! they must go 
down to destruction! 

The next morning, during the parade, Trenck drew near 
the king. He had just returned from Berlin; his cheeks 
were glowing from his rapid ride, and in his eyes there was 
still a shimmer of that happiness with which the presence of 
his beloved had inspired him. 

“Your majesty, I announce myself,” said he, in a fresh 
and gay voice. 

The king said nothing. He looked at the handsome, 
healthy, and radiant youth with a glance of profound sym- 
pathy and regret. 

Frederick von Trenck saw nothing of this. “ Does your 
majesty command me to join my regiment at Berlin?” said 
he, in the most unembarrassed manner. 

And now the king’s eyes flashed with rage. “ From 
whence come you?” said he, sternly. 

“From Berlin, sire.” 

“ Where were you before you were sent to Berlin?” 

“Tn arrest, sire.” 

“ Go, then, to your old place—that is to say, in arrest!” 

Frederick von Trenck remained in arrest till every prepa- 
ration was completed. The army was ready to march. The 
king assembled his officers, and announced to them that they 
were bound once more to Silesia to bloody battle, and, with 
God’s help, to glorious victory. On that day Frederick von 
Trenck was released from arrest. The king received him 
with a gracious smile, and commanded him to remain near 
him. Trenck’s comrades envied him because of the royal 
favor; because of the friendly smiles and gracious words 
which, more than once during the day, the king directed to 
him. No one understood how Trenck could remain sad and 
silent under all these evidences of royal favor; no one under- 
stood how this gallant young officer could enter upon this 
campaign with bowed head and heavy brow; he should have 
sat upon his horse proud and erect—not dreaming, not lost 
in melancholy musing. 

No one but the king could comprehend this; his sym- 
pathetic soul was touched by every emotion of his young 


238 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI, ETC. 


officer, and he had pity for every pang he inflicted. All this 
vast crowd of men had taken leave of those they loved and 
cherished. Trenck alone had been denied this solace. They 
had all received a love-greeting, a blessing, and a last fond 
kiss—a last tear to encourage them in battle, perhaps in 
death. Trenck had no kiss, no blessing, no farewell. He 
had said farewell to fortune, to love and hope; and even 
now, though marching to battle, perhaps to victory, he had 
no future. Tears were flowing for him, and tears would be 
his only inheritance. 








—_— a ee 


BOOK IL 


~CHAPTER IL 


THE ACTORS IN HALLE, 


His excellency, Gotshilf Augustus Franke, president of 
the university at Halle, bore unmistakable marks of anger 
and excitement upon his usually calm countenance, as, 
seated at his study-table, he glanced from time to time at a 
paper spread out before him. 

The entrance of two of his friends and colleagues seemed 
searcely to interrupt his disagreeable train of thought, as he 
bade them good morning and thanked them for coming to 
him so promptly. 

“T have requested your presence, my friends,” he con- 
tinued, “to inform you of the receipt of the answer to the 
petition which we presented to the General Directory.” 

“ Ah, then,” cried Professor Bierman, “our troubles are 
at an end!” 

“ Not so,” said Professor Franke, gloomily; “the wishes 
of the servants of the Lord do not always meet with the 
approbation of kings. King Frederick the Second has re- 
fused our petition which was presented to him by the General 
Directory.” 

“ Refused it?” exclaimed the two professors. 

“Yes, refused it; he declares that he will not allow the 
actors to be expelled from Halle, until it can be satisfactorily 
proved that they have occasioned public disturbances in our | 
midst.” 

“ This is unheard-of injustice,” exclaimed Professor Bier- 
man. 
“Tt is a new proof of the king’s utter — said 


240 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Professor Heinrich. “He has already gone so far as to de 
clare that these actors shall receive Christian burial.” 

“ Astounding!” cried the president. “This is a sacri- 
lege, which will assuredly meet.a just punishment. But,” he 
continued after a pause, glancing anxiously around, “let us 
not forget that we are speaking of our king.” 

“He seems to forget that even kings are but the servants 
of the Lord. His acts show a determination to destroy the 
church and its supporters.” 

“Your remark is, I fear, too true,” answered Professor 
Franke; “but the object of our meeting was not to discuss 
the king, but to discover, if possible, some means of extricat- 
ing ourselves from the disagreeable position in which we 
have been placed by the unexpected refusal of our petition. 
We were so confident of a different answer to our just de- 
mand, and have expressed this confidence so publicly, that, 
when the result is known, we shall be ridiculed by both citi- 
zens and students.” 

While the worthy professors were still deep in their dis- 
cussion, they were interrupted by the entrance of a servant, 
who announced that there was a gentleman at the door, who 
ealled himself Eckhof, and who desired to be admitted to 
President Franke. 

“ Eckhof!” exclaimed all three, and the two friends 
looked mistrustfully at Franke. 

“Eckhof! Do you receive Eckhof?” 

“Does this actor dare to cross your threshold?” 

“It appears so,” cried Franke, angrily. “He has the 
boldness to force himself into my presence.—Let him enter; 
we will then hear how he justifies this intrusion.” 

As Eckhof entered the room, the three professors re- 
mained seated, as if awaiting the approach of a criminal. 

Apparently unmoved by this want of courtesy, Eckhof ad- 
vanced to the president, and, after making a respectful bow, 
offered him his hand. 

Franke, ignoring this movement, asked, without changing 
his position, to what singular accident he might attribute 
the honor of this visit. 

Eckhof appeared grieved and astonished at the reception, 
but replied, “I came, your excellency, to ask a favor. My 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 941 


friends have determined to give me a benefit to-night, and 
we have selected Voltaire’s wonderful tragedy, ‘ Britannicus,’ 
for our performance. The tickets are all sold, two hundred 
of them to the students. There is, however, one thing want- 
ing to make the evening all I would wish, and that is the 
presence of your excellency and some of the professors at the 
representation. Therefore I am here, and have taken the 
liberty of bringing these tickets, which I beg you will accept 
for the use of yourself and your brother professors,” and, 
bowing once more, he placed the tickets upon the table be- 
fore which he was standing. 

“ Are you so lost, sir, to all sense of propriety,” cried 
Franke, “as to believe that I, the president of the univer- 
sity, a professor of theology, and a doctor of philosophy, 
would enter your unholy, God-forsaken theatre? No, sir, 
even in this degenerate age, we have not fallen so low that 
the men of God are to be found in such places.” 

“These are very hard and unchristian words, your ex- 
cellency, Professor and Doctor Franke, words which no 
Christian, no man of learning, no gentleman should employ. 
But I, although a poor actor, bearing no distinguished title, 
will only remember what is becoming for a Christian, and 
will say, in the words of our Lord, ‘ Father, forgive nt 
they know not what they do.’” 

“Those holy words become a blasphemy on your lips,” 
said Professor Heinrich, solemnly. 

“ And still I repeat them. ‘ Father, forgive them, they 
know not what they do.’ Do you not know that in judging 
me, you condemn yourselves? I came into your presence, 
hoping to reconcile the difficulties and misunderstanding 
which I heard had been occasioned by the theatre between the 
professors and the students; but you have treated me with 
scorn and declined my assistance, and nothing remains for 
me but to bid you farewell, most learned and worthy men.” 

He bowed ceremoniously, and passed out, without again 
glancing at the indignant professors, and joined Joseph 
Fredersdorf, who awaited him below. 

“ Well, did they accept your invitation?” 

“No, my friend, all happened as you predicted; they re- 
fused it with scorn and indignation.” 


242 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“Now you will agree with me that we can hope to do 
nothing in Halle.” 

“Yes, you were right, I fear, Joseph; but let us dismiss 
so painful a subject. We will now go to our rehearsal, and 
we must perform our tragedy with such care and in such a 
manner that the thunders of applause which we receive will 
reach the ears of our enemies.” 

The three professors were still in the room of the presi- 
dent, in earnest consultation. 

“So this miserable Eckhof is to have what he ealls a 
benefit to-night?” said the president. 

“Two hundred students will be present,” groaned Pro- 
fessor Heinrich. 

“ And our lecture halls will be empty.” 

“We must exert our energies and put a stop to these 
proceedings; it is scandalous that our students have for- 
saken their studies to run after these actors.” 

“Truly something must be done, for not only our ' fame 
but our purses are at stake.” 

“This evil cannot continue; we must take prompt meas- 
ures to root it out,” said the president. “The General Di- 
rectory decided that the actors should not be expelled from 
Halle, unless it could be proved that they had been the oc- 
casion of some public difficulty. It is therefore necessary 
that such a difficulty should arise. According to Eckhof’s 
account, there will be two hundred students at the theatre to- 
night. There are still, however, nearly one hundred who 
will not be present at his performance. Among these there 
must be some brave, determined, devout young men, who, in 
the name of God, of science, and of their teachers, would 
willingly enter the lists against these actors, and create 
a disturbance. We must employ some of these young 
men to visit the theatre to-night, and to groan and hiss 
when the other students applaud. This will be all-sufi- 
cient to raise a riot amongst these hot-blooded young men. 
After that, our course is plain; we have but to send in 
our account of the affair to the General Directory, and 
there will be no danger of a second refusal to our peti- 
tion.” 

“ An excellent idea!” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 943 


“JT am afraid, however, it will be difficult to find any 
students who will put their lives in such jeopardy.” 

“We must seek them among those to whose advantage it 
is to stand well with the president.’ 

“There are some who receive a yearly stipend through 
me, and others who live only for science, and never visit the 
theatre. I name, for example, the industrious young student 
Lupinus. I shall speak to him, and I am sure he will not 
refuse to assist us; he is small and not very strong, it is true, 
but he stands well with the students, and will carry others 
with him. I know five others upon whom I can count, and 
that is enough for our purpose. I will give them these tickets 
which Eckhof left here. He desired that we should make 
use of them, and we will do so, but to serve our own purpose, 
and not his.” 

Having arrived at this happy conclusion, the three pro- 
fessors separated. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE STUDENT LUPINUS. 


Yours Lupinus sat quiet and alone, as was usual with 
him, in his room, before his writing-table, which was cov- 
ered with books and folios. He was thinner and paler than 
when we first met him in Berlin. His deeply-sunken eyes 
were encircled with those dark rings which are usually the 
outward sign of mental suffering. His bloodless lips were 
firmly pressed together, and the small hand, upon which his 
pale brow rested, was transparently thin and white. 

Lupinus was working, or appeared to be so. Before him 
lay one of those venerable folios which excite the reverence 
of the learned. The eyes of the young man rested, it is true, 
upon the open page, but so long, and so uninterruptedly, that 
it was evident his thoughts were elsewhere. 

The professors would, no doubt, have been rejoiced had 
they seen him bent thus earnestly and attentively over this 
volume. Fis BOWEN: they had seen what really claimed his 


944 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


attention, they would have been seized with horror. Upon his 
open book lay a playbill, the bill for that evening, and upon 
this “ thing of horror” rested the eyes of the young student. 

“No, no,” he said, after a long pause, “I will not go. I 
will not be overcome by my heart, after the fierce struggle of 
these two long, fearful months. I will not, I dare not see 
Eckhof again; I should be lost—undone. Am I not lost 
even now? Do I not see ever before me those great, burning 
eyes; do I ever cease to hear his soft, melodious voice, which 
seems to sing a requiem over my dead happiness? I have 
striven uselessly against my fate—my life is blighted. I 
will strive no longer, but I will die honorably, as I have lived. 
I only pray to God that in my last hour I may not curse my 
father with my dying lips. He has sinned heavily against 
me; he has sacrificed my life to his will. May God forgive 
him! Now,” continued Lupinus, “enough of complaints. 
My resolution is taken; I will not go to the theatre, for I 
dare not see Eckhof again.” 

He suddenly seized the playbill, and pressed the spot 
where Eckhof’s name stood again and again to his lips, then 
tore the paper into many pieces, and threw them behind him. 

“So long as I live, I must struggle—I will battle bravely. 
My heart shall die, my soul awake and comfort me.” 

Again he bent his head over the great tome, but this 
time a light knock at his door interrupted him, and the im- 
mediate entrance of Professor Franke filled him with amaze- 
ment. 

“My visit seems to astonish you,” said the professor, in 
the most friendly tone. “ You think it singular that the 
president of the university should seek out one of the stu- 
dents. Perhaps it would be so in an ordinary case; but for 
you, Lupinus, who are the most learned and honorable young | 
man in our midst, we cannot do too much to show our re- 
spect and esteem.” 

“This is an honor which almost shames me,” aia Lu- 
pinus, blushing; “an honor of which, I fear, I am unworthy.” 

“T desire to give you a still greater proof of my esteem,” 
continued the professor. ‘“ I wish to make you my confidant, 
and inform you of an intrigue which, insignificant as it 
appears, will be followed by important results.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 245 


With ready words, Franke proceeded to explain to Lu- 
pinus his own views with regard to the actors; what he 
considered their wretched influence over the students, and 
also the ill-advised decision of the General Directory. He 
then informed Lupinus of his plan for creating a disturb- 
ance in the theatre, and requested his assistance in carrying 
it out. 

Lupinus listened with horror to this explanation and re- 
quest, but he controlled himself, and quietly received the 
ticket which the president handed him. He listened silently 
to the further details, and Franke understood his silence as 
a respectful assent. 

When the president had at length taken leave, and Lu- 
pinus was again alone, he seized the ticket, threw it on the 
ground, and trampled it under foot, thus visiting upon the 
inoffensive ticket the scorn he had not dared exhibit to the 
president. 

“T—I am to be the instrument of this miserable plot!” 
he cried passionately. “ Because I lead a lonely, joyless life, 
I am selected to execute this infamy. Ah, how little do they 
know me! how slight a knowledge of the human heart have 
these learned professors! Eckhof in danger, and I remain 
silent? Eckhof threatened, and I not warn him? That were 
a treachery against myself, a crime against art and my own 
poor heart. If I remain silent, I become an accomplice in 
this vile conspiracy.” At this thought, he took his hat, and 
hurried from the room. 

When he reached the door of Eckhof’s lodging, he hesi- 
tated. A profound pallor succeeded a burning glow upon 
his countenance, and he murmured to himself: “ No, no; I 
have not the strength to see him to-day. I should die if his 
eyes rested upon me. I will go to Fredersdorf.” 

Joseph Fredersdorf was at home, and received Lupinus 
with astonished delight. 

“The holy one trusts himself in the den of the wicked,” 
he said, with a bright smile. “ This is an unheard-of event, 
which doubtless indicates something important.” 

“You are laughing at me, but you are right. I am 
here for a purpose; nothing unimportant would have induced 
me to come to you after the ungrateful manner in which I 


246 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


declined your friendly advances. But I am sure you will 
forgive the intrusion when you become aware of the motive 
which has led me to you.” 

With hurried words and frequent interruptions from 
Fredersdorf, Lupinus informed his friend of the president’s: 
Visit, and its object. 

“This is a regular conspiracy,” said Joseph, as Lupinus 
finished. “If it succeed, the punishment of the actors will 
be the result.” 

“Tt must not succeed—we must prevent that. The first 
thing to be done is to gain over the other students to whom 
the president has intrusted this plot. We must either do 
that or prevent them from entering the theatre.” 

“But if we can do neither?” 

“Then we must allow what we cannot prevent, but we 
must seek to avert the evil consequences. We will address 
ourselves to the king, and inform him who has occasioned 
this disturbance, and why it was done.” 

“The king is just, and happily it is not difficult to see 
him, especially for me, as my brother is his private secreta- 
ry. We must be active, and the victory will be ours. And 
now, my dear friend, for you must allow me to call you 
so from this day, let us go to my master, Eckhof. He 
must thank you himself for this kind warning. Come to 
Eckhof.” 

“No!” said Lupinus, “it is a matter of no importance to 
Eckhof, who has given the information. There is much to 
be done to-day. I will seek to gain over the students; you 
must hasten to Eckhof.” 

“ And will you not accompany me?” 

“No, my friend, not to-day. Let us await the events of 
this evening. Perhaps I shall ask you to present me to him 
to-morrow.” 

“ Ah, that would be a real triumph for me!” 

“Let us first take care that this plot fails, and the actors 
are not driven from Halle.” 

“When we have accomplished this, will you promise to 
walk arm-in-arm with me three times through the market- 
plaee?” 

“ Not only three times, but as often as you will.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 9247 


“Now I feel the strength of Samson, and the craft of 
Delilah. With this reward before me, I will vanquish all 


enemies.” 


CHAPTER III. 


THE DISTURBANCE IN THE THEATRE, 


So dense was the crowd which filled the streets in the 
neighborhood of the theatre on the evening of Eckhof’s 
benefit, that it appeared as if the entire population of the 
city of Halle must be unanimous in wishing to do honor to 
this wonderful artiste. 

Eckhof owed this triumph to the students; he had been 
their darling from the time of his first appearance among 
them, and now he had become the favorite of the entire city, 
with the exception of the professors. 

Had the theatre been three times its actual size, it could 
scarcely have accommodated all who had made applications 
for tickets. The parterre was given up almost entirely to 
the students, upon whose countenances was plainly seen 
their deep interest in the evening’s entertainment. 

Here and there among them a few earnest faces and 
darkly flashing eyes might be seen, but they seemed to arrest 
no eye but that of Lupinus. He had passed every counte- 
nance in review, and had instantly recognized by their ex- 
pression those students who had entered into the plot of 
the president. He had failed in his effort to discover them 
before the opening of the theatre, and was, therefore, unable 
to prevent their attendance. 

Professor Franke had informed these students that they 
might count upon the assistance of Lupinus, and one of them 
had just whispered to him: “ There will be a fierce struggle, 
and I fear we shall be worsted, as our number is so small. 
Did you bring your rapier?” 

Before Lupinus could answer, he was separated from his 
questioner by a crowd of students pushing their way forward. 
It seemed as if these new arrivals had not come to the 


248 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


theatre for mere amusement. They glanced threateningly 
around them, as if seeking a concealed enemy. In passing 
Lupinus they greeted him with a few low-spoken words, or 
a warm pressure of the hand. 

These students were the special friends of Joseph Fre- 
dersdorf. To them he had confided the danger which threat- 
ened the actors this evening, and had demanded their aid in 
maintaining peace and quiet. They scattered about amongst 
the crowd of students, and whispered to their friends and ac- 
quaintances: “ No disturbance this evening. We must be 
quiet, whatever occurs.” 

At length this fluttering, whispering crowd were silenced 
by the ringing of the bell which announced the rising of the 
curtain. 

The piece began, and never had Eckhof displayed such 
fire, such enthusiasm; the students had never exhibited such 
rapt and earnest attention. Their excitement was shown 
by their flashing eyes and glowing cheeks, and the low mur-~ 
murs of delight which arose occasionally from this dark 
mass. But at length a moment arrived when it became im- 
possible to suppress the expression of their delight, and for- 
getting all resolve to the contrary, they called aloud, amid 
thunders of applause, for their favorite Eckhof, who had 
just left the stage. 

“A disturbance is now unavoidable,” said Lupinus to 
himself, “ but Eckhof deserves that we should forget all 
such miserable considerations. To die for him were to be 
indeed blessed.” 

As Eckhof appeared upon the stage, in answer to the re- 
peated calls upon his name, Lupinus gazed upon him with a 
beaming countenance, and joined the others in their cries of 
delight. 

The unalloyed triumph of Eckhof endured but for one 
moment, for suddenly, high above the shouts of applause, 
arose a piercing, derisive whistle, sueceeded by hisses and 
groans. 

As if by magic, the aspect of the parterre was changed. 
Every student looked wrathfully at his neighbor, as if de- 
termined to discover and punish the rash offender who dared 
run counter to the general approbation. A few students 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 249 


were endeavoring to calm the rising storm; but renewed 
hisses and groans made this impossible, and one voice was 
heard high above the others: “ You hissed, sir; I forbid it!” 

“ And I forbid you to applaud,” was the answer. “So long 
as you applaud, I will hiss. Accommodate yourself to that.” 

A universal cry of wrath arose as if from one voice. The 
struggle was inevitable, as Lupinus had foreseen; the par- 
terre of. the theatre was converted into a battle-ground, and 
a fierce combat began among these young, hot-blooded stu- 
dents. The manager ordered the lights to be extinguished, 
and the police to be called in, but for a long time their efforts 
were ineffectual in subduing the contest. 

We will leave the theatre with Lupinus, who, as soon as 
he could extricate himself from the battling crowd, hurried 
through the streets, toward the lodging of Fredersdorf. 

He found a post-carriage before the door, and Freders- 
dorf, dressed for a journey, was just leaving the house. As 
he was stepping into the carriage, Lupinus placed his hand 
upon his shoulder, and said, “ Where are you going, Freders- 
dorf?” 

“To Berlin, to the king.” 

“The king is not in Berlin; he is in Silesia, with the 
army.” 

“T received letters from my brother to-day. The king 
has gone to Berlin for a few days, and my brother is with 
him. I will have no difficulty in obtaining an audience. I 
shall give the king a correct version of this affair. He will 
perceive that this disturbance was occasioned by the pro- 
fessors, and he will not allow us to be driven from Halle. 
Farewell, my friend; in four days I return, and you shall 
hear the result of my journey.” 

“T intend to accompany you.” 

“You intend to accompany me?” 

“Yes; perhaps you will need a witness; I must be with 
you. I thought you would have counted on me.” 

“ How could I suppose that Lupinus, the learned student, 
who will receive his diploma at the end of a few weeks, 
would tear himself from the arms of his beloved Science, 
to go with a comedian before the king, and bear witness for 
the hated and despised actors?” 


250 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ Ah, Fredersdorf,” said Lupinus; “if you consider 
Science my beloved, I fear you will soon have occasion to 
call me a faithless lover.” 

“What can you mean? How! you also—” 

“Let us be off, my friend. We will discuss that in the 
carriage.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE FRIENDS. 


Four days after the unfortunate occurrences in the 
theatre, Fredersdorf and his friend Lupinus returned from 
their secret journey, the object of which was unknown even 
to Eckhof. No sooner had they alighted from their travel- 
ling carriage, than they proceeded arm-in-arm to Eckhof’s . 
lodging. They found him at home and alone, and Freders- 
dorf saw from his pale countenance and lustreless eyes that 
his sensitive, easily excited nature had been deeply wounded 
by the late events. 

“T bring you a new pupil, my master,” said Fredersdorf, 
drawing Lupinus forward, who stood deeply blushing before 
Eckhof. 

Eckhof smiled sadly. “A pupil who desires that I should 
lead him through all the classes and degrees of the school 
of suffering and humiliation?” 

“ A young student, Eckhof, who up to this time has been 
the pride and delight of the university; who, however, now 
wishes to relinquish this honor, and become one of your fol- 
lowers. In one word, this is Lupinus, who desires to waive 
his right to the prospective dignity of the title of doctor of 
medicine, and to become your pupil, and eventually an 
actor.” 

“You are kind and tender-hearted as ever, Joseph,” said 
Eckhof, gently. “You know that I bear a wound in my 
heart, and you seek to heal it with the balm of your friend- 
ship, and this kind jest.” 

“This is no jest, but a reality. Truly, you resemble a 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 951 


pair of lovers, who have not the courage to believe in their 
own happiness. Eckhof will not believe that the learned 
student Lupinus wishes to become his follower and pupil, 
and Lupinus stands there like a young girl who has received 
a declaration and does not dare say yes. Speak, Lupinus, 
and tell this doubter that you have come voluntarily; that 
I have not pressed you into the service as Frederick William 
impressed soldiers. Truly, I had trouble enough in divining 
from your broken words and repressed sighs, your blushes, 
and your deep admiration for Eckhof, this secret which lay 
in your bosom. But now that it has been discovered, take 
courage, my friend, and raise the veil which conceals your 
desires.” 

Lupinus remained speechless, only the heaving of his 
breast betrayed his excitement. Eckhof had compassion on 
the evident embarrassment of the young student, and ap- 
proaching him laid his hand gently on his shoulder. Lu- 
pinus trembled and grew pale under Eckhof’s gentle, sympa- 
thetic glance. 

“Do you wish really to become an actor?” questioned 
Eckhof. 

“Yes,” he replied in a low voice, “I have long wished it, 
I have struggled with this wish, and thought I had overcome 
it; but the struggle has been in vain; in vain have I buried 
myself in books and studies. I will keep up this internal 
strife no longer, but will follow the inclinations of my heart, 
which lead me to you. In this new life I shall be happy and 
contented; and this I can only hope to be, in giving my life 
to poetry and art.” 

“ Ah, he speaks and thinks as I did,” said Eckhof to him- 
self; then turning to Lupinus, he said: “ You wish to be an 
actor; that means, you desire a life of shame and humilia- 
tion. No one shall become an actor if I can prevent it. Do 
you know, young man, that, to become an actor, means to 
have the whole world, and perhaps even God, arrayed against 
you?” 

“You are unjust, Eckhof,”’ cried Fredersdorf—* unjust 
to yourself and to the world. You scorn your own triumph, 
and those who prepared that triumph for you.” 

“You are right so far, my friend,” replied Eckhof sadly. 


952 — BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“But is it not also true that we are persecuted and driven 
forth? Has it not been proved that for an actor there is no 
law, no justice ?” 

“Who knows,” ‘said Fredersdorf, smiling, “that we may 
not still triumph over these miserable conspirators?” 

“ Are you aware that the theatre has been closed, and our 
representations forbidden until the decision of the General 
Assembly, with regard to the late disturbance in the theatre, 
shall be known?” 

“The General Assembly will order the theatre to be 
opened, and our representations to recommence.” 

Eckhof heard this with a cutting, derisive laugh. “ Dear 
friend, such an order would render justice to the scorned and 
oppressed on earth!” ¥ 

“ And they will receive justice; but it must be sought in 
the right place.” 

“Where is that place?” 

“Where the king is.” 

“Ah! the king! That may be true in your case, be- 
cause your brother is his private secretary, but it is not true 
for me—not true for the German actor.” 

“ Eckhof, you are again unjust. The king is too noble, 
too free from prejudice, to be deceived by the dust with 
which these learned professors have sought to blind him. 
The king knows that they occasioned the late disturbance in 
the theatre.” 

“Who has told you that?” 

“The king himself.” 

“You have seen the king?” 

“T have. I hope you will allow now, that it is not a good 
thing for me only that my brother is private secretary to 
the king. I have seen his majesty, and I informed him of 
this wretched intrigue of the professors. He might not have 
put entire faith in the accounts of the actor, Joseph Freders- 
dorf, but I was accompanied by a responsible witness, who 
confirmed my words.” 

“Who was this witness?” 

“This is he,” said Joseph, drawing Lupinus forward. 

“ Ah!” said Eckhof, “and I was murmuring and com- 
plaining against fate—I, whose friends have shown their 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 253 


love by deeds as well as by words—friends who worked for 
me whilst I sat with folded hands bewailing my bad for- 
tune. Forgive me, Joseph; forgive me, my young friend; 
come to my arms, my comrades, my brothers, and say that 
- you will forget my anger and injustice.” 

He opened his arms, and Joseph threw himself upon his 
breast. 

“ And you, my friend,” said Eckhof, turning to Lupinus, . 
who stood pale and motionless before him. 

Joseph drew them together and exclaimed: “ Was I not 
right? You are like two lovers; Lupinus acts the part of 
the coy maiden to the life. I do not believe, Eckhof, that 
you will ever have a wife who will love you more entirely, 
more tenderly, than our young doctor does.” 

Lupinus, now folded in the arms of Eckhof, trembled 
and grew pale at these words from Joseph. 

“Love me, love me, my dear young friend,” said Eckhof, 
softly. “Friendship is the purest, the holiest gift of God. 
It is the love of the souls. Be faithful to me, Lupinus, as 
I shall be to you.” 

“T will be faithful so long as I live, faithful beyond the 
grave,” whispered Lupinus. 

“You whispering, dreaming lovers, are forgetting me,” 
said Joseph, laughing. “ You must not forget, Eckhof, that 
the future of our friend is awaiting your decision. Shall he 
give up his studies as I did, and become an actor? It is only 
proper to tell you that the cases are not quite parallel, for I 
was a very lazy student, and he is most industrious. I was 
considered a good-for-nothing, and Lupinus is a miracle of 
knowledge and learning. Shall he abandon this position 
and follow you?” 

“He must not, indeed,” said Eckhof. 

“ You will not receive me?” said Lupinus, sadly. 

“Not at present, dear friend; I wish to be reasonable 
and careful, and perhaps a little egotistical. If you should 
leave the university at present, you give the professors a new 
weapon against me, and it would be said that I had employed 
arts to seduce you from the paths of science. And, further, 
we do not know if you have a talent for our profession; that 
must first be proved. Remain for the present true to your 


254 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


studies; at the end of a year, during which time you shall 
pass your novitiate, we will decide this question.” 

“Tt shall be as you say,” said Lupinus, earnestly. “TI 
will first gain my diploma, and then you shall decide my 
future, you and no other.” 

“So be it,” said Joseph, “and now let us drink to your 
future success, Lupinus, in a glass of champagne, and to the 
confusion of the professors, who are awaiting with such 
proud confidence the decision of the General Assembly.” 


CHAPTER V. 


THE ORDER OF THE KING. 


JOSEPH F'REDERSDORF was quite right in saying that the 
professors awaited the decision of the General Assembly 
with proud confidence. It did not occur to them that it 
might be unfavorable to their wishes. A public disturbance 
had arisen between the students, occasioned by a performance 
in the theatre; this was a sufficient cause for the banish- 
ment of the actors. An account of the riot had been already 
forwarded by the Senate of the University to the General 
Assembly, and the worthy gentlemen who composed this body 
did not doubt the fulfilment of their request, that the actors 
should be removed from Halle. 

President Franke received with the utmost composure 
the official dispatch, containing the decision of the General 
Assembly, and called an immediate meeting of the Senate for 
its perusal. Whilst awaiting the opening of the meeting, 
Professor Heinrich was expressing to his friend, Professor 
Bierman, his impatience to know the contents of this dis- 
patch. 

“T am not at all impatient,” replied Bierman. “I am 
convinced the decision will be perfectly satisfactory to us; 
in fact, that it commands the departure of these actors from 
our city.” 

“Have you no doubts? Do you not fear that the king, 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 9255 


in his hatred for the theologians, and his admiration for 
these comedians, may decide in their favor rather than in 
ours?” 

“Dear friend, such a doubt would be unworthy the dig- 
nity of our position. The king, seeing that the matter has 
gone so far, must decide in our favor. And here is our 
worthy president; look at his proud and cheerful aspect, 
and judge whether the document he holds in his hand can be 
unfavorable.” 

“He does, indeed, seem contented,” answered Professor 
Heinrich, as he and his friend moved forward to meet the 
president. 

With great solemnity the senators proceeded to take their 
seats in the arm-chairs which encircled a high table standing 
in the centre of the room. 

After a moment’s silence the president addressed them: 
“Worthy friends and colleagues, I have to announce to you 
that the hour has at length arrived which is to end all the 
doubts and cares that have oppressed our hearts for many 
months. We have had a bitter struggle; we have striven to 
preserve the honor of our university and the well-being of 
the youth committed to our care. The men who work with 
such noble motives must eventually triumph.” 

“The decision is, then, in our favor?” asked Professor 
Heinrich, no longer able to subdue his impatient curiosity. 
“Your excellency has already read the dispatch of the Gen- 
eral Assembly, and are acquainted with its contents.” 

“T have not read it, and I do not know its contents. But 
I rely upon our worthy cause, and the king’s sense of justice. 
These comedians were the occasion of a public disturbance— 
it is, therefore, proper that they should be punished. As 
justice is on our side, I cannot doubt the result. I have 
not read this dispatch, for I considered it more in accord- 
ance with the dignity of this body that the seal should be 
broken in your presence, and I now beg that you, Professor 
Bierman, as the secretary of the Senate, will read to us 
this dispatch from the General Assembly.” 

As Bierman broke the seal, all eyes were turned on him, 
and in this moment of expectation the professors were aware 
that their hearts beat louder and more rapidly. Suddenly 


256 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Professor Bierman uttered a ery, a ery of horror, which 
awakened an echo in every breast. 

“ Proceed,” commanded the president, with stony com- 
posure. 

“T cannot,” murmured Bierman, as he sank back power- 
less in his chair. 

“Then I will read it myself,” cried Professor Heinrich, 
forgetting all other considerations in his determination to 
satisfy his curiosity. “I will read it,” he repeated, as he 
took the paper from the trembling hands of his friend. 

“Read,” said the president, in a low voice. 

Professor Heinrich then proceeded to read aloud the 
following dispatch sent by the General Assembly to the 
Senate of the University at Halle. 

“We find it most unworthy that you, in your complaint 
against the comedians now in Halle, should endeavor to cast 
on them the blame of the late disturbance in the theatre. 
We are well aware of the cause of this disturbance, and now 
declare that the actors shall not be banished from Halle.” 

A fearful pause followed this reading. The president 
perceived that Heinrich was still looking at the paper he 
held. 

“Ts that all? Have you finished the dispatch?” 

“No, your excellency; there is a note on the margin, in 
the writing of the king.” 

“ Read it aloud.” 

“Your excellency, the king has made use of some ex- 
pressions that I cannot bring my lips to utter.” 

“The king is our master; we must hear what he has to 
say in all humility.” 

“You command me, then, to proceed?” 

“T command it.” 

“¢This pack of theologians have caused the whole diffi- 
culty. The actors shall continue to play, and Mr. Franke, 
or whatever else the scamp calls himself, shall make pub- 
lic reparation, by visiting the theatre; and I must receive 
information from the actors themselves that he has done 
so.” ? 

A murmur of horror succeeded the reading of this order. 
Only President Franke maintained his erect position, and 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 257 


continued looking straight before him at Professor Heinrich, 
who had just dropped the fatal’ paper. 

“Ts that all?” asked the president. 

“Tt is, your excellency.” 

He bowed gravely, and, rising from his chair, glanced 
slowly from one face to another. The senators cast down 
their eyes before this glance, not from fear or shame, but 
from terror at the fearful expression of the president’s 
countenance. 

“Tf that is all, it is time for me to go,” he said solemnly, 
as he pushed his chair back, and slowly and stiffly walked 
forward, like an automaton which has been set in motion by 
machinery. 

“This has affected his brain. He will have a paralytic 
stroke,” murmured the senators to one another. 

The president did not hear them, nor did he seem to know 
what he wished. He was now standing motionless a few 
steps from the table. 

The professors were terrified at this spectacle, and only 
Heinrich had the courage to advance to his side and ask— 
“ Where do you wish to go, my dear friend?” 

“T wish to obey the command of the king—I am going to 
the theatre,” he replied, with a cry of despair, and then fell 
fainting into the arms of his friend. 

Professor Bierman instantly summoned assistance, and 
the insensible form of the president was borne from the 
room, and a messenger sent for a physician. 

When the professors had become somewhat composed, 
Bierman announced to them that he had a proposition to 
make which he hoped would meet with their approval. 

“You doubtless agree with me, my friends, in saying 
that this cruel sentence of the king must not be carried out. 
Our friend the president would not suffer alone in its fulfil- 
ment—the honor of the university would receive an irrepa- 
rable wound. We must employ evety effort to alter this de- 
cision. It is, in my opinion, fortunate that our worthy 
friend has sunk for the time beneath this blow. His illness 
relieves him from the necessity of an immediate appearance 
in the theatre; and, whether ill or not, he must remain in his 
bed until the king can be induced to alter his sentence. We 


258 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


will prepare a petition and send it immediately to the 
king.” . 

The proposal of Bierman met with entire approval; and 
the petition was prepared, signed by all the professors, and 
sent to Berlin by one of their number. The king, however, 
declined to receive him, and his only answer was that in 
eight days the Senate would be made acquainted with his 
final decision. 

The professors convinced themselves that there was com- 
fort in this answer. The king evidently did not intend to 
insist on the execution of the first sentence, or he would 
simply have ordered its fulfilment. 

The professors were hopeful, and no longer opposed the 
nightly visits of the students to the theatre. A few of them 
determined to visit the theatre themselves, and see this 
Eckhof who had caused them so much sorrow and trouble. 
The students were delighted at this concession, and consid- 
ered the professors the most enlightened and unprejudiced 
of the whole body. To show their apreciation of this, they 
attended their lectures on the following day. 

This unexpected result made the other professors falter 
in their determination. Their temporal good depended very 
much on the attendance of the students upon their lectures. 
They found that they must consent to listen to Eckhof and 
his companions, if they would be heard themselves; and, 
at length, they determined to make peace with the students 
and actors, and to visit the theatre. 

Peace was now proclaimed, and Eckhof, whose noble and 
tender heart was filled with joy and gratitude, played “ Bri- 
tannicus ” with such power and feeling that he even won ap- 
plause from the professors. 

President Franke was still confined to his room. The 
terror of a forced visit to the theatre, which would be known 
as an expiation for his fault, made his nights sleepless and 
his days most wretched. 

At length, however, the answer to the petition arrived, 
and, to his great relief, he found himself condemned to pay 
a fine of twenty thalers to the almshouse of Halle; and no 
further mention was made of his visit to the theatre. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 9259 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE BATTLE OF SOHR. 


DeEP silence reigned in the encampment which the 
Prussians had established near the village of Sohr. The 
brave soldiers, wearied with their long march, were sleeping 
quietly, although they knew that the Austrian army, which 
far outnumbered their own, was hastening toward them, 
and would attack them within a few hours. This knowl- 
edge did not alarm them, they had not so soon forgotten 
their signal victory over Karl von Lothringen, with his Aus- 
trians, Bavarians, and Saxons, at Hohenfriedberg. They 
did not fear a defeat at Sohr, although the grand duke was 
now the leader of forty thousand men, and Frederick’s army 
had been so diminished by the forces he had sent to Saxony 
and Silesia, that it consisted of scarcely twenty thousand 
men. The Prussian soldiers relied confidently upon the good 
fortune and the strategic talent of their king; they could 
sleep quietly, for Frederick watched beside them. 

The watch-fires had died out, the lights in the tents of the 
officers were extinguished. Now and then might be heard 
the measured tread of a sentinel, or the loud breathing of 
some soldier dreaming perhaps of his distant home or for- 
saken bride. No other sounds broke upon the night air. 
The Prussian army slept. Alas! how many of them were 
now dreaming their last earthly dream; how many on the 
morrow would lie with gaping wounds upon a bloody battle- 
ground, with staring glassy eyes turned upward, and no one 
near to wipe the death-drops from their brows! They 
know not, they care not, they are lost in sleep. There can 
be no pressing danger, for the king is in their midst—the 
light has been extinguished in his tent also. He sleeps with 
his army. 

It is midnight, the hour of wandering spirits. Is that a 
spirit which has just left so noiselessly the tent of the king, 
and has so quickly vanished in the tent of the adjutant, which 
adjoins that of the king? No, not vanished, for it has al- 
ready reappeared; but there are now three of these shadowy 

17 


260 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


beings quietly approaching the white tents of the officers, 
disappearing for an instant into each tent, then reappearing, 
and continuing their course. 

Where they have been may now be heard a low whisper- 
ing and moving. Soon another dark figure is visible; it 
moves cautiously forward toward the soldiers’ tents in which 
it disappears, and from these may be heard the same low 
whispering, and like a murmuring brook this babbling glides 
through the entire camp, always following the first three 
shadows who have gone noiselessly and with the rapidity of 
the wind through the camp. 

Why have these three shadows driven sleep from the en- 
campment! why have they ordered the horses to be pre- 
pared? No one has been told to mount, no “ Forward!” 
has been thundered through the camp; and but for the dark 
figures which may now be seen on all sides, the silence is so 
profound that one might almost think the camp still buried 
in sleep. 

The Austrians, who can only view the camp from a dis- 
tance, think, no doubt, their enemy still sleeps. 

The silence of the camp is at last broken by a sound like 
the heavy roll of thunder; and if the moon were now to 
break through the clouds, it would gleam upon eight field- 
pieces which are being carefully drawn behind a little eleva- 
tion in the ground, which lies opposite the defile occupied by 
the Austrians. 

Once again all is silent, and the horizon begins to clear; 
a few rosy clouds fly across the heavens, the veil of night is 
raised, the stars pale as the morning arrays herself with hues 
of purple and gold. 

It is morning. Let us look again at the camp of the 
Prussian soldiers. Are they sleeping? No, no; all are 
awake; all prepared for action, but all silent and motionless 
as if bound by a charm. 

And here is the enchanter who has awakened all these 
thousands to life, and still binds them to silence. His coun- 
tenance is bright and clear, his glance seems to pierce the 
hill which divides him from the enemy, and to divine the 
moment of their attack. There is the ruler, whose will is 
law to all these thousands of men, whose word is now to lead 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 261 


them to death, to a shameful defeat, or to a glorious victory. 
There is the king. He knows that within a few moments 
the Austrians will attack his army, but he does not tremble. 

The Austrians expect to surprise a sleeping foe; but the 
king, who is the father of his people, has himself, with his 
two adjutants, Trenck and Standnitz, awakened them from 
their slumbers; it was he who directed the placing of can- 
non at the point upon which the Austrian cavalry is certain 
to make their descent upon the sleeping camp. 

The king was right. Do you not hear the heavy tramp of 
cavalry, the thunder of those cannon? 

The Austrians are pressing through the narrow defile; 
this is the thunder of their cannon, with which they thought 
to awaken the Prussians. 

Now the king raises his sword; the sign is given. The 
Austrian cavalry may advance, for the Prussians are now in 
motion; now rushing forward, pressing toward the defile, 
before which their enemy are quietly forming their line of 
battle, although scarcely fearing a conflict, for are the Prus- 
sians not sleeping? They expected a bloodless victory. 

But the Prussians are awake; it is they who attack the 
surprised Austrians. They have already driven the cavalry 
back into the narrow defile. The thunders of their cannon 
are now heard, and they bear the appalling news to the Aus- 
trians that the Prussians are not sleeping. 

Karl von Lothringen, you should have known the Prus- 
sians better. Did not they out-manceuvre you two short 
months since? Did not Frederick make a pretence of re- 
treating, in order to draw you on out of your favorable posi- 
tion, and then attack you, and win, in a few short morning 
hours, a glorious victory? Karl von Lothringen, you should 
have remembered Hohenfriedberg. You should not have im- 
agined that the Prussians slept while the Austrians stood be- 
fore them in battle array. The Prussians are indeed awake. 
Listen to their joyous shouts, look at their flashing swords! 

Karl von Lothringen, where are your troops which were 
intended to attack the enemy in the rear? Where is Trenck 
with his pandours? where General Nadasti, with his well- 
disciplined regiments? If your hope is in these, then de- 
spair, and thrust your sword in its sheath. 


262 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


The Prussians have deserted their camp; the enemy is 
before them; in their pursuit they have left all behind them; 
they thought not of earthly possessions, but of honor and vic- 
tory. Every thing was left in the camp. The king’s entire 
camp-furniture, and even the army treasure. 

Karl von Lothringen, hope nothing from Trenck and his 
pandours; nothing from Nadasti and his regiments. They 
have obeyed your commands; they have pressed into the 
enemy’s camp; they are taking prizes, plundering greedily. 
What care they for the battle which thunders and roars be- 
fore them? the cannon-balls do not reach them; they can 
enrich themselves in the camp of the Prussians whilst these 
are gaining a glorious victory. 

The battle is not yet decided. “If Trenck and Nadasti 
attack our rear,” said the king, “we are lost.” 

At this moment an adjutant announced to him that 
Trenck and Nadasti were plundering the Prussian camp. 

The king’s countenance beamed with delight. “ Let 
them plunder,” he said, joyfully, “whilst they are so oc- 
cupied they will not interfere with our important work. 
Whilst they plunder, we will conquer.” i 

Yes, the battle is decided; while the Austrians plun- 
dered, the Prussians conquered. Karl von Lothringen, 
overcome with grief and shame, is retreating with his dis- 
organized troops. 

The Prussians have gained the day, but it was a fearful 
victory, a murderous battle between brothers, German 
against German, brother against brother. 

The Duke Albrecht, of Brunswick, has fallen by the side 
of the king; his brother Ludwig lies covered with wounds in 
the Austrian camp. 

Poor Queen Elizabeth Christine, your husband has con- 
quered, but you have both paid dearly for the victory. The 
king has lost his tent, his camp-furniture, and eighty thou- 
sand ducats, and the baggage of the entire army. You have 
lost one brother, and the other lies covered with bloody 
wounds. The king has gained the battle. His is the fame 
and honor. You, poor queen, you have only a new grief. 
Yours are the tears and the pain. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 963 


CHAPTER VIL. 


AFTER THE BATTLE. 


Tue Prussians were resting from their labors, not in 
comfortable tents or on soft cushions, but on the hard 
ground, with no protection against sun and wind, and not 
too distant from the battle-field to hear the heart-rending 
cries and groans of their dying comrades. But even these 
cries and groans were to the triumphant Prussians the sign 
of their glorious victory, and awoke in those who had es- 
caped unscathed through this terrible fire a feeling of deep 
gratitude. 

After these fearful hours of excitement followed a gen- 
eral lassitude, a positive physical necessity for rest. But, 
alas! there was something which drove sleep from their eye- 
lids, and increased the weariness of their bodies. This was 
hunger. The pandours had thoroughly plundered the Prus- 
sian camp; they had taken not only the baggage of the poor 
soldiers, but all their provisions. 

The Prussians, who had obtained so glorious a triumph 
in the morning, were now looking forward to a day of fast- 
ing, while the Austrians, in spite of their defeat, were con- 
soling themselves with the provisions which they had taken 
from the Prussians. Happy was he who had a piece of bread 
in his knapsack, or whose tent had been overlooked or for- 
gotten by the plunderers; but few had been so fortunate, and 
these in the egotism of hunger refused to share their pre- 
cious treasure, even with their dearest friend. 

King Frederick was not among the fortunate. The vic- 
tory was his, but his laurel-wreath could not be transformed 
into bread. He had said in vain to his generals and adju- 
tants, “ We will dine.” There was nothing to set before the 


When General Rothenberg brought this disagreeable 
news to the king, he said, laughing gayly: “ Let us imagine 
ourselves to be Catholics, my friends, for the present, and 
it will be quite in order that we should fast on the day of 
a glorious victory. I will be quite contented with a piece of 


964 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


bread, and I suppose that can be found somewhere for the 
King of Prussia.” 

But General Rothenberg’s order to the royal cook to 
satisfy the simple demand of his master was in vain. The 
cook had nothing, neither meat, fruit, nor bread. 

“T will not return empty-handed to the king,” said Roth- 
enberg, with tears in his eyes. “I would sooner part with 
my last ducat to the first soldier I meet who has a piece of 
bread.” 

The general then passed, with inquisitive glances, through 
the group of soldiers who were talking over the events of the 
last few hours. At last he perceived a soldier who was not 
talking, but was ogling a piece of bread which he seemed 
preparing to devour. With a hasty spring the general was 
at his side, his hand upon the bread. 

“T will give you two ducats for this piece of bread, my 
friend.” 

“Two ducats! what should I do with two ducats?” he 
asked, with a scornful laugh. “I cannot eat your ducats, 
general, and my bread is more precious to me than a hand- 
ful of ducats.” 

“Tf you will not give it for gold, then give it for love,” 
cried the general. “ For love of your king who is hungry, 
and has nothing to satisfy his craving.” 

The countenance of the soldier, which had been so smil- 
ing, became earnest, and he murmured thoughtfully to him- 
self, “ The king has no bread!” 

“The king is hungry,” repeated Rothenberg, almost im- 
ploringly. 

“The king is hungry,” murmured the soldier, sadly, as 
he glanced at the bread in his hand. Then, with quiet de- 
termination, he cut the loaf in two pieces, and handing one to 
the general, he said, “I will give you half of my bread, that 
is really all I can do for the king. Take it, general, the mat- 
ter is settled. I will give no more.” 

“T desire no more,” said Rothenberg, as he hurried off 
with the bread to the newly-erected tent of the king. 

The soldier looked smilingly after him, but suddenly his 
countenance became overcast, he was seized with a fearful 
idea—suppose the general had deceived him, and the bread 


_ FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 965 


was not for the king? He must know, he must convince him- 
self that the statement was true. He followed the general 
rapidly, and soon overtook him. Rothenberg perceived him, 
and understood instantly why he had followed him. Smil- 
ingly he entered the presence of the king. 

“My king, I am here, and bring what you demanded, a 
piece of bread.” 

“ Ah, that means renewed strength,” said the king, as he 
received the bread and commenced eating it with evident 
satisfaction. ‘“ How did you procure this bread for me, my 
friend?” 

“Sire, I obtained it of a soldier, who refused to sell it, 
but who gladly gave it to me when he heard it was for the 
king. Afterward he conceived a doubt that I had deceived 
him, and that I had obtained his treasure for my own grati- 
fication. He followed me, and I wager he is standing with- 
out longing to know if the king is really eating his bread.” 

“T will gratify his desire,” said Frederick, smiling, as he 
raised the curtain of the tent, and stood in the opening. 

There stood the soldier, staring at the tent, but he trem- 
bled when he perceived the king. Frederick nodded to him 
most kindly, and proceeded to cut the bread which he held in 
his hand. 

“T thank you for your bread,” he said; “my friend, you 
must ask some favor of me. Think what you would wish.” 

“Oh! I need not think,” the soldier cried joyfully. “If 
I may wish for something, it shall be the position of magis- 
trate in my native land in Prussia.” 

“When peace is declared, your wish shall be gratified,” 
said the king to the delighted soldier, and then bowing gra- 
ciously, Frederick reéntered the tent. 

“ Now my friend, my Pylades, we will allow ourselves an 
hour of rest, of recreation; I think we have earned it. 
Come and read aloud to me.” 

“ What shall I read to your majesty?” asked Rothenberg, 
evidently embarrassed. 

“You may read from Horace.” 

“Your majesty does not know—” said Rothenberg, hesi- 
tatingly. 

“What do I not know?” 


266 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ That the pandours have carried off your camp library.” 

“What! my books too?” demanded the king, and a 
cloud darkened his brow. “ What can the pandours and 
Croats do with my poor books? Could they not content 
themselves with my treasure and my silver-ware? Must 
they take what is so worthless to them, and so precious 
to me?” 

Then, with bent brows, his hands crossed behind him, he 
paced back and forth in the narrow tent. Suddenly arrest- 
ing his steps, he glanced around the tent, as if in search of 
something. “ Biche is not here,” he said quietly; “ bring 
Biche to me, my friend.” 

But General Rothenberg did not move. 

“Well!” exclaimed the king. 

“ Sire, they have taken Biche with them also.” 

“Biche also, my faithful friend, my pet!” cried the 
king, with much emotion; as he again began his walk. At 
length, approaching the general, he placed both hands upon 
his shoulder and looked tenderly into his eyes. “I have my 
friend,” he said gently, “ why should I be troubled about my 
books or my dog? I will send to Berlin and have the books 
replaced, and I will ransom Biche. They cannot refuse to 
restore the faithful animal to me.” 

There was an expression of such anxiety on the king’s 
features, that Rothenberg was much moved. 

“T do not doubt, sire,” he said, “that your favorite will 
be returned to you. Your majesty may well trust to that 
Providence which has vouchsafed you so glorious a victory.” 

The king replied, smiling: “I will tell you a secret, my 
friend. I deserved to be overcome in this battle, for I had 
weakened my army too much by detachments. Nothing but 
the skill of my generals and the bravery of my troops saved 
me from a defeat. Something is also due to the avarice of 
the pandours and Croats; a branch of our laurel-wreath be- 
longs justly to Nadasti and Trenck. It is most fortunate 
that the courier who brought those last dispatches from Ber- 
lin, did not arrive during the battle. He would certainly 
have been captured by the pandours, and my dispatches lost. 
My friend, do you not see how Providence marks out for me 
the path of duty? A king dare not waste a moment in 


EE —— 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 267 


dreams or idle pleasures. I wished to live an hour for myself, 
when I should have been reading these dispatches. We will 
go to work; here is the key of the dispatch bag; open it and 
take out the letters.” 

The king then seated himself before the common deal 
table which stood in the centre of the tent, and assorted the 
papers which Rothenberg handed to him. 

“ We will first read the letters from our friends,” said the 
king, placing the dispatches and papers on one side. “ Here 
are letters from D’Argens, and from Knobelsdorf, but none 
from Duhan, or Jordan, or Kaiserling. What does that 
mean? I fear that all is not right. Ah! here is a letter for 
you, my friend, in the handwriting of Duhan. He writes 
to you, and not to me. Read, Rothenberg, and tell me its 
contents.” 

The king then opened one of his own letters, but it was 
evident that it did not occupy his attention. He raised his 
eyes every few seconds to look at the general, who had be- 
come very pale on first opening his letter, and whose counte- 
nance now bore an expression of pain. Frederick could 
no longer endure this silence. He arose hastily, and ap- 
proached Rothenberg. 

“ My friend,” he said, “ Duhan has written something to 
you that he would not write to me—something most painful. 
I see by your countenance.” 

“ Your majesty is right; my letters contain most distress- 
ing intelligence.” 

“ Ah!” murmured the king, as he turned from Rothen- 
berg, “I fear I have not the strength to support this coming 
trial.” After a pause, he continued: “ Now, my friend, tell 
me, are my mother and sisters well?” 

“ Sire, the entire royal family are well.” 

“ Your intelligence, then, relates to my friends. Two of 
them are ill—yes, two. How is Jordan? You do not an- 
swer—you weep. How is Jordan?” 

“ Sire, Jordan is dead.” 

“Dead!” cried the king, as he sank powerless upon his 
chair, and covered his face with his hands. “ Dead! my 
best, my dearest friend is dead?” 

“ His death was as bright and peaceful as his life,” said 


268 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Rothenberg. “ His last word was a farewell to your maj- 
esty, his last act was to write to his king. Here is the letter, 
sire.” 

The king silently received the letter from Rothenberg. 
Two great tears ran slowly down his cheeks, and, falling on 
the letter, obliterated some words of the address. “ Jordan’s 
hand wrote these words for the last time; this idle title ‘ his 
majesty ’—and my tears have washed it away. Jordan! 
Jordan I am no longer a king, but a poor, weak man who 
mourns for his lost friend.” 

He pressed the paper passionately to his lips; then 
placed it in his bosom, and turned once more to Rothenberg. 

“ Tell me the rest, my friend; I am resigned to all things 
now.” 

“Did you not say, sire, that you had left two friends ill 
in Berlin?” 

“ Jordan and Kaiserling. You do not mean that Kaiser- 
ling also—oh, no, no! that is impossible! Jordan is dead, and 
I knew that he must die; but Kaiserling will recover—I feel, 
I know it.” 

“Your majesty,” said Rothenberg, “if I were a pious 
priest, I would say Kaiserling has recovered, for his soul has 
returned to God.” 

“ Kaiserling dead also! Rothenberg, how could you find 
the courage to tell me this? Two friends lost in a moment 
of time.” The king said nothing more. His head sank 
upon his breast, and he wept bitterly. After a time he 
raised his head, and said, as if to himself: “ My two friends! 
They were my family—now I am orphaned. Sorrow will 
make a desert of my heart, and men will call me cold and 
heartless. They will not know that my heart is a graveyard, 
wherein my friends lie buried.” 

The tears ran slowly down his cheeks as he uttered this 
death-wail. So deep was the grief depicted on the counte- 
nance of the king, that Rothenberg could no longer restrain 
himself. He rushed to the king, and, sinking on his knees 
beside him, seized his hands and covered them with tears 
and kisses. 

“ Oh, my king, my hero! cease to mourn, if you do not 
wish to see me die of grief.” 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 9269 


The king smiled mournfully, as he replied: “If one 
could die of grief, I would not have survived this hour.” 

“ What would the world think could they see this great 
conqueror forgetting his triumphs and indulging such 
grief?” 

“ Ah, my friend, you desire to console me with the re- 
membrance of this victory! I rejoice that I have preserved 
my land from a cruel misfortune, and that my troops are 
crowned with glory. But my personal vanity finds no food 
in this victory. The welfare and the happiness of my people 
alone lie on my heart—I think not of my own fleeting fame.” 

“The fame of my king is not fleeting. It will live in 
future years,” cried the general. 

The king shrugged his shoulders almost contemptuously. 
“ Only death stamps fame upon kings’ lives. For the pres- 
ent, I am content to fulfil my duties tr the best of my abil- 
ity. To be a true king, a monarch mus be willing to re- 
sign all personal happiness. As for me, Rothenberg, on 
this day, when I, as a king, am peculiarly fortunate, my 
heart is wrung by the loss of two dear friends. The man 
must pay for the happiness of the king. But,” said the king, 
after a pause, “this is the dealing of the Almighty; I must 
submit silently. Would that my heart were silent! I will 
tell you something, my friend. I fear that I was unjust 
to Machiavelli. He was right—only a man with a heart of 
iron can be a king, for he alone could think entirely of his 
people.” 

“How suffering and full of grief must my king be to 
speak thus! You have lost two dear friends, sire. I also 
mourn their loss, but am suffering from a still deeper grief. 
I have lost the love of my king. I have lost faith in the 
friendship of my Frederick,” said Rothenberg, sighing 
deeply. 

“My Rothenberg,” said the king, with his deep, tender 
voice, “look at me, and tell me what men call you, when they 
speak of you and me?” 

“T hope they call me your majesty’s most faithful ser- 
vant.” 

“No, they call you my favorite, and what they say is true. 
Vox populi vox Dei. Come to my heart, my favorite.” 


270 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ Ah! my king, my prince, my friend,” cried Rothenberg, 
enthusiastically, as he threw himself into the arms of the 
king. 

They stood long thus, heart pressed to heart; and who 
that had seen them, the king and *h~ hero, the conquerors of 
the day, would have imagined that their tears were not the 
tears of happiness and triumph, but of suffering and love? 

“ And now,” said Frederick, after a pause, “let me again 
be king. I must return to my duties.” 

He seated himself the table, and Rothenberg, after 
taking from the dispatch-bag a number of documents bear- 
ing the state seal, handed the king a daintily perfumed, rose- 
colored note. The king would. not receive it, although a 
light flush mounted to his brow and his eyes beamed more 
brightly. 

“Lay that on one side,” he said, “I cannot read it; the 
notes of the Miserere are still sounding in my heart, and 
this operatic air would but create a discord. We will pro- 
ceed to read the dispatches.” 


CHAPTER VIITI. 


A LETTER PREGNANT WITH FATE. 


THE king was not the only person, in the encampment at 
Sohr, to whom the courier brought letters from Berlin; the 
colonel of every regiment. had received a securely-locked - 
post-bag containing the letters for the officers and soldiers 
of his regiment, which it was his duty to deliver. To avoid 
errors in the distribution, every post-bag was accompanied 
by a list, sent from the war department, on which each per- 
son to whom a letter was addressed must write a receipt. 

Colonel von Jaschinsky was therefore compelled to deliver 
to Lieutenant von Trenck both the letters which were ad- 
dressed to him. The colonel looked at one of these letters 
with a most malicious expression; he was not at all curious 
concerning its contents, for he was well acquainted with 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 271 


them, and knew that as soon as Trenck received it, it would 
become a sword, whose deadly point would be directed to the 
breast of the young man. 

He knew the letter, for he had seen it before, but he had 
not delivered it; he had fraudulently withheld it from 
Trenck, in order to send it to Berlin, to his friend Péllnitz, 
and to ask him if he did not think it well suited to accom- 
plish their purpose of making Lieutenant von Trenck harm- 
less, by bringing about his utter destruction. Péllnitz had 
not answered up to this time, but to-day Colonel von Jas- 
chinsky had received a letter from him, in which he said: “ It 
is now time to allow the letter of the pandour to work. I 
carried the letter to the post, and I imagine that I played 
the part of a Job’s messenger to “his impertinent young offi- 
cer, who allows himself to believe that his colonel owes him 
two hundred ducats. If you have ever really been his debtor, 
he will certainly be yours from to-day, for to you he will owe 
free quarters in one of the Prussian forts, and I hope for no 
short time. When you inform the king of this letter from 
the pandour, you can also say that Lieutenant von Trenck re- 
ceived a second letter from Berlin, and that you believe it 
to be from a lady. Perhaps the king will demand this letter, 
which I am positive Trenck will receive, for I mailed it 
myself, and it is equally certain that he will not destroy it, 
for lovers do not destroy the letters of the beloved.” 

No, lovers never destroy the letters of the beloved. . 
What would have induced Frederick von Trenck to destroy 
this paper, on which her hand had rested, her eyes had 
looked upon, her breath touched, and on which her love, her 
vows, her longing, and her faith, were depicted? No, he 
would not have exchanged it for all the treasures of the 
world—this holy, this precious paper, which said to him that 
the Princess Amelia had not forgotten him, that she was de- 
termined to wait with patience, and love, and faith, until her 
hero returned, covered with glory, with a laurel-wreath on his 
brow, which would be brighter and more beautiful than the 
crown of a king. 

As Trenck read these lines he wept with shame and hu- 
miliation. Two battles had been already won, and his name 
had remained dark and unknown; two battles, and none of 


272 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


those heroic deeds which his beloved expected from him with 
such certainty, had come in his path. He had performed 
his duty as a brave soldier, but he had not accomplished such 
an heroic act as that of Krauel, in the past year, which had 
raised the common soldier to the title of Baron Krauel von 
Ziskaberg, and had given to the unknown peasant a name 
whose fame would extend over centuries. He had not aston- 
ished the whole world with a daring, unheard-of undertaking, 
such as that of Ziethen, who had passed with his hussars, un- 
known, through the Austrian camp. He had been nothing 
but a brave soldier—he had done nothing more than many 
thousands. He felt the strength and the courage to tear the 
very stars from heaven, that he might bind them as a diadem 
upon the brow of his beloved; to battle with the Titans, and 
plunge them into the abyss; to bear upon his shoulders the 
whole world, as Atlas did; he felt in himself the power, the 
daring, the will, and the ability of a hero. But the opportu- 
nity failed him. 

The deeds which he longed to accomplish did not lie in 
his path. And thus, in spite of two victorious battles in 
which he had fought; in spite of the evident good-will of the 
king, he had remained what he was, the unknown, undis- 
tinguished Lieutenant von Trenck. With a trembling heart 
he demanded of himself that the Princess Amelia would con- 
tinue to love him if he returned to her as he had departed; 
if her proud, pure heart could stand that severest of all tests, 
the discovery that she had bestowed her love upon an ordi- 
nary, undistinguished man. 

“No, no!” he cried, “I have not the courage to return 
thus to her. If I cannot distinguish myself, I can die. In 
the next battle I will conquer fame or death. And if I fall, 
she will weep for me. That would be a far happier fate 
than living to be forgotten or despised by her.” 

He pressed Amelia’s letter to his lips, then placed it in his 
bosom, and opened the second letter. Whilst he read, an ex- 
pression of astonishment appeared on his features, and a 
smile, half gay, half scornful, played upon his full, fresh lips. 
Soon, however, his features grew earnest, and a dark shadow 
clouded his youthful brow. 

“Tf I had enemies they could destroy me with this let- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 973 


ter,” he said, in a low voice. “It could, wild and silly as it 
is, be made to represent me as a traitor. Perhaps it is a pit- 
fall which has been prepared for me. Is it possible that the 
authorities should have allowed this letter, coming evidently 
from inimical Austria, to pass unread through their hands? 
I will go immediately to my colonel, and show him this let- 
ter,” said Trenck. “ He can then inform the king of it if 
he think it necessary. Concealment might be more danger- 
ous for me than an open acknowledgment.” | 

And placing this second letter also in his bosom, Trenck 
proceeded to the tent of Colonel von Jaschinsky, who wel- 
comed him with unusual warmth. 

“ Colonel,” said Trenck, “do you remember the singular 
letter which I received six months since from my cousin, 
Baron von Trenck, colonel of the pandours?” 

“ Ah, you mean that letter in which he invites you to 
come to Austria, and promised, should you do so, to make 
you his sole heir?” | 

“Yes, that is the letter I mean. I informed you of it at 
the time and asked your advice.” 

“ What advice did I give you?” 

“ That I should reply kindly and gratefully to my cousin; 
that I should not appear indifferent or ungrateful for a pro- 
posal by which I might become a millionnaire. You ad- 
vised me to decline going to Austria, but only to decline so 
long as there was war between Prussia and Austria.” 

“Well, I think the advice was good, and that you may 
still follow it.” 

_ “You advised me also to write to my cousin to send me 
some of those beautiful Hungarian horses, and promised to 
forward my letter through Baron von Bossart, the Saxon 
ambassador; but on the condition that when I received the 
Hungarian horses, I should present one of them to you.” 

“ That was only a jest—a jest which binds you to nothing, 
and of which you have no proofs.” 

“T!” asked Trenck, astonished; “ what proof do I need 
that I promised you a Hungarian horse? What do I want 
with proofs?” 

Count Jaschinsky looked embarrassed before the open, 
trusting expression of the young officer. His singular re- 


274 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


mark would have betrayed him to a more suspicious, a more 
worldly-wise man, who would have perceived from it the 
possibility of some danger, from which Jaschinsky was seek- 
ing to extricate himself. 

“T did not mean,” said the count, laughing, “that you 
needed a proof; I only wished to say that I had no proof 
that you had promised me a Hungarian horse, and that you 
need not feel obliged to give me one.” 

“Yes, colonel, your request and my promise occurred be- 
fore witnesses. Lieutenant von Stadnitz and Ensign von 
Wagnitz were present; and if that had not been the ease, I 
should consider my word binding. But at present I have no 
Hungarian horses, only an answer from my singular cousin, 
the contents of which I wish to impart to you.” 

“Ah, the colonel of the pandours has answered you?” 
asked Jaschinsky, with well-dissembled astonishment. 

“Yes, he has answered me, and has written me the 

most singular letter that one can imagine. Only listen 
to it.” 
And Frederick von Trenck hastily pulled out the letter 
which he had put in his bosom. Entirely occupied with this. 
subject, and thinking of nothing else, he opened the letter 
and read: 

“From yours, dated Berlin, February 12th, I ascertain: 
that you desire some Hungarian horses on which to meet 
my hussars and pandours. I learned with much pleasure, in. 
the last campaign, that the Prussian Trenck was a brave’ 
soldier; as a proof of my consideration, I returned to you 
at that time the horses which my men had captured from 
you. If you desire to ride Hungarian horses, you must take 
mine from me on the field, or come to your cousin, who will 
receive you with open arms as his son and friend, and accord 
you every wish of your heart.” 

Had Trenck looked less attentively at his letter, while 
reading, he would have perceived that Jaschinsky was pay- 
ing but slight attention (he was looking attentively on the 
floor); he quietly approached Trenck, and placed his foot 
upon something which he evidently wished to conceal. He 
then stood still, and as Trenck finished reading he broke into 
a loud laugh, in which the young officer joined him. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 9275 


“ Your cousin is a droll man,” said the count, “ and under 
the conditions which he offers you, I will still accept your 
Hungarian horse. Perhaps you will soon find an opportu- 
nity to give it to me, for I believe we are about to attack 
Hungary, and you can yourself procure the horses. But now, 
my young friend, excuse me; I must go to the king to give my 
report. You know he will endure no neglect of duty. After 
the war council I will see you again.” 

Trenck took leave, a little surprised at the sudden dis- 
missal. The colonel did not accompany him, as usual. He 
remained standing in the middle of the tent until he was 
alone; then stooping down, he drew from under his foot the 
daintily folded letter that he had concealed while Trenck was 
present. 

Count Jaschinsky had seen what had escaped Trenck. 
He saw that Trenck, in taking out the letter from his cousin, 
had let fall another paper, and while Trenck was reading, 
he had managed to conceal it with his foot. Now he has- 
tily seized this paper, and opened it. A most wicked ex- 
pression of joy overspread his countenance whilst he read, 
_ and then he said, triumphantly: “ Now he is lost. It is not 
necessary to tell the king that Trenck has received a letter 
from a lady; I will take him the letter itself, and that will 
condemn Trenck more surely than any conspiracy with his 
-cousin. Away to the king!” 

But, as he had already withdrawn the curtain of his tent, 
he remained motionless, and appeared deep in thought. 
Then he allowed the curtain to fall, and returned within. 

“T think I was on the point of committing a great folly. 
This letter would of course accomplish the destruction of 
my hated creditor, but I doubt exceedingly if I would escape 
unharmed if I handed this ominous writing to the king. He 
would never forgive me for having discovered this affair, 
which he, of course, wishes to conceal from the whole world. 
The knowledge of such a secret would be most dangerous, 
and I prefer to have nothing to do with it. How can I 
manage to let this letter reach the king, without allowing 
him to know that I am acquainted with the contents? Ah, 
I have it!” he cried, after a long pause, “the means are 


sure, and not at all dangerous for me.” 
18 


276 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


With rapid steps he left his tent, and proceeded to that 
of the king from whom he prayed an audience. 

“ Ah! I wager that you come to complain of some one,” 
said the king, as Jaschinsky entered. “There is a wicked 
light in your eye. Am I not right? one of your officers has 
committed some folly.” 

“T leave the decision entirely to your majesty,” said 
Jaschinsky, humbly. “Your majesty commanded me to 
watch carefully over my officers, especially the Lieutenant 
von Trenck.” 

“Your complaint is-again of Trenck, then?” asked the 
- king, frowningly. “I will tell you before we begin, unless 
it is something important I do not wish to hear it; gossip 
is disagreeable to me. I am well pleased with Trenck; he 
is a brave and zealous officer, and I think he does not neg- 
lect his duties. Consider, therefore, colonel, unless it is a 
grave fault of which you have to complain, I advise you to 
remain silent.” 

“T hope your majesty will allow me to proceed.” 

“ Speak,” said the king, as he turned his back on the 
colonel, and appeared to occupy himself with the books on 
his table. 

“ Lieutenant von Trenck received a letter by the post to- 
day which points, in my opinion, to an utterly unlawful pro- 
ceeding.” 

The king turned hastily, and looked so angrily at the 
colonel that he involuntarily withdrew a step. “It is for- 
tunate that I did not hand him that letter,” thought Jas- 
chinsky; “in his anger the king would have destroyed me.” 

“From whom is this letter?” demanded the king. 

“Sire, it is from Baron von Trenck, the colonel of the 
pandours.” 

The king appeared relieved, as he replied, with a smile: 
“This pandour is a cousin of our lieutenant.” 

“ But he is in the enemy’s camp; and I do not think it 
proper for a Prussian officer to request one in the Austrian 
service to send him a present of horses, or for the Austrian to 
invite the Prussian to join him.” 

“Is this in the letter?” asked the king in a threatening 
tone; and when Jaschinsky answered in the affirmative, he 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 9277 


said: “ Give me the letter; I must convince myself with my 
own eyes that this is so.” 

“T have not the letter, but if your majesty desire, I will 
demand it from Lieutenant von Trenck.” 

“ And if he has burnt the letter?” 

“Then I am willing to take an oath that what I have re- 
lated was in the letter. I read it myself, for the lieutenant 
showed it to me.” 

“ Bring me the letter.” 

Jaschinsky went, and the king remained alone and 
thoughtful in his tent. “If he were a traitor, he would 
surely not have shown the letter to Jaschinsky,” said the 
king, softly; “no, his brow is as clear, his glance as open as 
formerly. Trenck is no traitor—no traitor to his country— 
I fear only a traitor to his own happiness. Well, perhaps he 
has come to his reason, I have warned him repeatedly, and 
perhaps he has at length understood me.—Where is the let- 
ter?” he asked, as Coionel Jaschinsky reéntered. 

“Sire, here it is. At least I think that is it. I did not 
take time to glance at the paper, in my haste to return to 
your majesty.” 

“ Was he willing to give the letter?” 

“He said nothing, but drew it instantly from his bosom, 
and I brought it to your majesty without glancing at it.” 

The king looked searchingly into the countenance of the 
colonel. Jaschinsky’s repeated assurances that he had not 
looked at the letter surprised the king, and led him to sus- 
pect some hidden motive. He received the letter, and 
opened it slowly and carefully. He again turned his pierc- 
ing glance upon the countenance of Jaschinsky; he now 
perceived the rose-colored letter, which lay in the folds of 
that one from Colonel Trenck, and he immediately under- 
stood the words of the count. This little letter was really 
the kernel of the whole matter, and Jaschinsky preferred to 
know nothing of it. 

“ Wait outside until I call you. I wish to read this letter 
carefully,” said the king, with perfect composure; but when 
Jaschinsky had disappeared, he hastily unfolded the paper, 
and, throwing Trenck’s letter on the table, he took the other, 
and looking carefully at it, he said softly, “It is her writing 


_ 


278 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


—yes, it is her writing, and all my trouble has been in vain. 
They would not understand me. They are lost.” 

And sighing deeply, the king turned again to the letter. 
“Poor, miserable children, why should I not make them 
happy? is it impossible to forget prejudice for once, and to 
allow these two beings to be happy in their own way? So 
strange a thing is the heart of a woman, that she prefers an 
orange-wreath to a crown! Why should I force this young 
girl to be a princess, when she only desires to be a woman? 
Shall I allow them to fly away into some wilderness, and there 
create a paradise? But how soon would the serpent creep in- 
to this paradise! how soon would satiety, and ennui, and re- 
pentance destroy their elysium! No, the daughters of the 
Hohenzollerns must not stoop for happiness; I cannot change 
it. Fate condemns them, not I. They are condemned, but 
the sword which is suspended above them must fall only upon 
his head. His is the guilt, for he is the man. His stake was 
immense, and he has lost all.” 

The king then took the letter of Colonel Trenck, and 
read it attentively. “This letter bears all-sufficient testi- 
mony against him; it is the iron mask which I will raise be- 
fore his crime, that the world may not discover it. I would 
laugh at this letter were it not for the other, which con- 
demns him. This will answer as an excuse for his punish- 
ment.” 

The king arose from his seat, and placing the letter of the 
princess in his bosom, and folding the other, he walked has- 
tily to the opening of the tent and called Jaschinsky. 

“Colonel,” he said, and his countenance was troubled but 
determined, “you are right. Lieutenant von Trenck is 
a great criminal, for this letter contains undeniable proof of 
his traitorous connection with the enemy. If I ordered him 
before a court-martial, he would be condemned to death. As 
his crime may have grown out of carelessness and thought- 
lessness, I will be merciful, and try if a few years’ imprison- 
ment will not work a cure. You can inform him of his 
punishment, when you return his cousin’s letter to him. 
You did not open this letter when you brought it to me?” 

The eye of the king rested with a threatening expression 
upon the colonel as he asked this question. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 9279 


“No, your majesty,—I did not open it,” replied the 
volonel. 

“You did well,” said the king, “for a wasp had crept 
within it, which might have given you a deadly wound. Go 
uow, and take this letter to Trenck, and take his sword from 
him. He is under arrest, and must be sent at once to the 
fortress at Glatz.” 

“Must it be quietly done?” asked Jaschinsky, scarcely 
able to conceal his delight. 

“No, on the contrary, I wish the whole army, the whole 
world to know why I have punished Trenck. You ean say 
to every one that Trenck is a traitor, who has carried on an 
unlawful correspondence with his cousin in Austria, and has 
conspired with the enemy. His arrest must be public, and 
he must be sent to Glatz, guarded by fifty hussars. Go now 
and attend to this business.—He is lost,” said the king, sol- 
emnly, when he was once more alone. “Trenck is con- 
demned, and Amelia must struggle with her grief. Poor 
Amelia! ” ; 

The generals were waiting outside, among them the fa- 
vorite of the king, General Rothenberg. They had been 
summoned to a council by the king, and were awaiting his 
orders to enter the tent. 

But the king did not call them, perhaps he had forgotten 
them. He walked slowly up and down in his tent, apparently 
lost in thought. Suddenly he stood motionless and listened. 
He heard the tramp of many horses, and he knew what it 
meant. He approached the opening of the tent, and drew 
back the curtain sufficiently to see without being seen. 

The noise of the horses’ hoofs came nearer and nearer. 
The first hussars have passed the king’s tent, and two 
more, and again two, and again, and again; and there in 
their midst, a pale young man, with a distracted counte- 
nance, with staring eyes, and colorless lips, which appear 
never to have known how to laugh, a young officer, without 
sword or epaulettes. Is this Trenck, the beautiful, the 
young, the light-hearted Trenck, the beloved of a princess, 
the darling of all the ladies, the envied favorite of the king? 
He has passed the tent of the king; behind him are his 
servants with his horses and his baggage; and then again 


280 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


hussars, who close the procession, the burial-procession of 
Trenck’s happiness and freedom. 

The king seemed deeply moved as he stepped back from 
the curtain. “ Now,” he said solemnly, “I have committed 
my first act of injustice; for I judged this man in my own 
conscience, without bringing him before a court-martial. 
Should the world condemn me for this, I can at least say that 
it is my only fault of the kind.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE RETURN TO BERLIN, 


PEACE was proclaimed. This poor land, bleeding from a 
thousand wounds, might now rest, in order to gather strength 
for new victories. The husband of Maria Theresa had been 
crowned as emperor, and the conditions of peace had been 
signed at Dresden, by both Austrians and Prussians. The 
king and his army returned victorious to their native land. 
Berlin had assumed her most joyous appearance, to welcome 
her king; even Nature had done her utmost to enliven the 
scene. The freshly fallen snow, which covered the streets 
and roofs of the houses, glittered in the December sunshine 
as if strewn with diamonds. But none felt to-day that the air 
was cold or the wind piercing; happiness created summer in 
their hearts, and they felt not that it was winter. On every 
side the windows were open, and beautiful women were 
awaiting the appearance of their adored sovereign with as 
much curiosity and impatience as the common people in the 
streets, who were longing to greet their hero-king. 

At length the happy hour came. At length the roar of 
cannon, the ringing of bells, the shouts of the crowd, which 
filled every avenue leading to the palace, announced that the 
king had returned to his capital, which, in the last few days, 
he had saved by a happy manceuvre from being attacked by 
the Austrians and Saxons. The people greeted their king 
with shouts; the ladies in the windows waved their handker- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 981 


chiefs, and threw fragrant flowers into the open carriage in 
which Frederick and his brothers sat. 

As they passed before the gymnasium, the scholars com- 
menced a solemn song, which was at the same time a hymn, 
and a prayer for their king, their hero, and their father. 
“Vivat, vivat Fredericus! Rex vivat, Augustus, Magnus, 
Felix Pater Patrice!” sang the scholars. But suddenly ris- 
ing above the voices of the singers, and the shouts of the 
people, a voice was heard, crying aloud, “Vivat Frederick 
the Great !” 

The people who had listened silently to the Latin because 
they did not understand it, joined as with one impulse in this 
ery, the shout arose as from one throat, “ Vivat Frederick 
the Great!” And this cry spread like wildfire through all 
the streets, over all the public squares; it resounded from 
every window, and even from the tops of the houses. To-day 
Berlin had rebaptized her king. She gave him now a new 
name, the name which he will bear through all ages, the 
name of Frederick the Great. 

The king flushed deeply as he heard this ery. His heart, 
which had been sad and gloomy, seemed warmed as by a 
ray of sunlight. Ambition throbbed within his breast, and 
awakened him from his melancholy thoughts. No, Fred- 
erick had now no time to think of the dead; no time to 
mourn secretiy over the loved, the faithful friends whom he 
would no longer find in Berlin. The king must overcome 
the feelings of the friend. His people are here to greet him, 
to welcome his return, to bestow upon him an immortal 
name. The king has no right to withdraw himself from 
ven love; he must. meet it with his whole soul, his whole 

eart. 

Convincing himself that this was necessary, Frederick 
lifted his head, a bright color mounted to his cheeks, and his 
eyes flashed as he bowed graciously to his people. Now he 
is truly Frederick the Great, for he has conquered his own 
heart, and he has poured upon the open wound of his private 
sorrows the balm of his people’s love. 

Now the carriage of the king has reached the palace gate. 
Frederick raises his hat once more, and bows smilingly to the 
people, whose cries of “ Vivat Frederick the Great’? still fill 


282 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


the air. When for a moment there is silence, a single, clear, 
commanding voice is heard, “Long live Frederick the 
Great!” 

The king turns hastily; he has recognized the voice of his 
mother. She is standing on the threshold of the palace, sur- 
rounded by the princesses of the royal family. Her eyes are 
more brilliant than the diamonds which glitter in her hair, 
and more precious than the costly pearls upon her bosom 
are the drops which fall from her eyes, tears of pride and 
happiness, shed in this moment of triumph. Again she re- 
peats the ery taught her by the people, “ Long live Frederick 
the Great!” 

The king knew the first tone of that dear voice, and, 
springing from the carriage, hurried forward and threw him- 
self into his mother’s extended arms, and laid his head upon 
her breast, as he had done when a child, and wept hot tears, 
which no one saw, which his mother alone felt upon her 
bosom. 

Near them stood Elizabeth Christine, the consort of the 
king, and in the depths of her heart she repeated the cry of 
the people, and she gazed prayerfully toward heaven, as she 
petitioned for the long and happy life of her adored hus- 
band. But Frederick did not see her; he gave his arm to 
his mother, and they entered the palace, followed by his 
wife and his sisters and brothers. 

“ Frederick the Great!” This ery still resounds through 
the streets, and the windows of the palace tremble with the 
ringing of this proud name. The sound enters the saloons 
before him; it opens wide the doors of the White Saloon, 
and when the king enters, the pictures and statues of the 
Hohenzollerns appear to become animate, the dead eyes 
flash, the stiffened lips smile, and the motionless heads seem 
to bow, for Frederick’s new name has called his ancestors 
from their graves—this name, which only one other Hohen- 
zollern had borne before him—this name, which is as rare 
a blossom on the genealogical trees of the proudest royal 
families as the blossoms of the aloe. The king greets his an- 
cestors with a happysmile, for he-feels that he is no unworthy 
successor. He has forgotten his grief and his pain; he has 
overcome them. In this hour he is only the king and hero. 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 283 


But as the shadows of night approach, and Berlin is bril- 
liant with illuminations, Frederick lays aside his majesty, 
and becomes once more the loving man, the friend. He is 
sitting by the death-bed of his friend and preceptor, Duhan. 
The joyous shouts of the people are still heard without, but 
the king heeds them not; he hears only the heavy breathing 
of his friend, and speaks to him gentle words of love and 
consolation. 

At length he leaves his friend, and now a new light 
' springs into his eyes. He is no longer a king, no longer a 
mourning friend, he is only a young man. He is going to 
spend an hour with his friend General Rothenberg, and for- 
get his royalty for a while. 

Rothenberg seems to have forgotten it also, for he does 
not come to welcome his kingly guest. He does not receive 
him on the threshold. No one receives him, but the hall and 
stairway are brilliantly lighted; and, as he ascends, a door 
opens, and a woman appears, beautiful as an angel, with eyes 
beaming like stars, with lips glowing as crimson roses. Is 
it an angel or a woman? Her voice is as the music of the 
spheres to the king, when she whispers her welcome to him, 
and he, at last, thinks he beholds an angel when he sees 
Barbarina. 


CHAPTER X. 


JOB’S POST. 


BERLIN shouted, huzzaed, sang, danced, declaimed, illu- 
minated for three entire days in honor of the conquered 
peace, and the return of her great king. Every one but the 
young Princess Amelia seemed contented, happy, joyous. 
She took no part in the glad triumph of her family, and the 
loud hosannas of the people found no echo in her breast. 
With heavy heart and misty eyes she walked slowly backward 
and forward in her boudoir. For three days she had borne 
this terrible torture, this anguish of uncertainty. Her soul 


284 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


was moved with fearful anticipations, but she was forced to 
appear gay. 

For three days, with trembling heart and lips, she had 
been compelled to appear at the theatre, the masquerades, 
the balls, and ceremonious dinners of the court. She felt 
that the stern eye of the king was ever searchingly and 
angrily fixed upon her. Several times, completely over- 
come and exhausted by her efforts to seem gay and careless, 
she sought to withdraw unobserved to her room, but her 
ever-watchful brother intercepted her, and led her back to 
her place by her royal mother. He chatted and jested mer- 
rily, but his expression was dark and threatening. Once 
she had not the power to respond with smiles. She fixed her 
pleading, tearful eyes upon the king. He bowed down to 
her, and said harshly: “I command you to appear gay. A 
princess has not the right to weep when her people are 
happy.” 

To-day the court festivities closed. At last Amelia 
dared hope for some hours of solitude and undisturbed 
thought. To-day she could weep and allow her pale lips 
to express the wild grief of her heart. In her loneliness she 
dared give utterance to the ery of anguish rending her bosom. 

Where was he? where was Trenck? Why had he not 
returned? Why had she no news, no love-token, no message 
from him? She had carefully examined the list of killed 
and wounded. He had not fallen in battle. He was not 
fatally wounded. He had not returned with the army, or 
she would have seen him. Where was he, then? Was he ill, 
or had he forgotten her, or did he blush to return without 
his laurels? Had he been taken by the Austrians? Was 
her beloved suffering in a loathsome prison, while she was 
laughing, jesting, and adorning herself in costly array? 
While she thus thought and spoke, burning tears blinded her 
eyes, and sighs and sobs choked her utterance. 

“Tf he is dead,” said she, firmly, “then I will also die. 
If he is in prison, I will set him at liberty. If he does not 
come because he has not been promoted and fears I no 
longer love him, I will seek him out, I will swear that I love 
him, that I desire only his love, that I will fly with him to 
some lonely, quiet valley. I will lay aside my rank, my 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 985 


royalty, forget my birth, abandon all joyously, that I may 
belong to him, be his fond and dear-loved wife.” 

- And now a light sound was heard at the door, and she 
recognized the voice of her maid asking admittance. 

“ Ah!” said Amelia, “if the good Marwitz were here, I 
should not have to endure this torture, but my brother has 
unconsciously robbed me of this consolation. He has sent 
my friend and confidante home, and forced upon me a 
strange and stupid woman whom I hate.” 

And now a gentle voice plead more earnestly for admit- 
tance. 

“T must indeed open the door,” said the princess, un- 
willingly drawing back the bolt. “ Enter, Mademoiselle yon 
Haak,” said Amelia, turning her back in ordér to conceal her 
red and swollen eyes. 

Mademoiselle von Haak gave a soft, sad glance at the 
young princess, and in a low voice asked for pardon for her 
unwelcome appearance. 

“Without doubt your reason for coming will justify 
you,” said the princess. “I pray you, therefore, to make it 
known quickly. I wish to be alone.” 

“ Alas! your royal highness is harsh with me,” whis- 
pered the young girl. “I was forced upon you. I know it; 
you hate me because I have taken the place of Mademoi- 
selle von Marwitz. I assure you I was not to blame in this. 
It was only after the written and peremptory command of 
his majesty the king that my mother consented to my ap- 
pearance at court.” 

“Have you come, mademoiselle, simply to tell me this?” 

“No, your royal highness; I come to say that I love you. 
Even since I had the honor of knowing you, I have loved 
you. In the loneliness which surrounds me here, my heart 
gives itself up wholly to you. Oh, do not spurn me from 
you! Tell me why you are sad; let me bear a part of your 
sorrow. Princess, I offer you the heart of a true friend, of 
a sister—will you cast me off?” 

The young girl threw herself upon her knees before the 
princess, and her cheeks were bathed in tears. Amelia 
raised and embraced her. 

“Oh!” said she, “I see that God has not utterly for- 


286 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


saken me. He sends me aid and comfort in my necessity. 
Will you be, indeed, my friend?” 

“Yes, a friend in whom you can trust fully, to whom 
you can speak freely,” said Mademoiselle von Haak. 

“Who knows but that may be more dangerous for you 
than for me?” sighed Amelia. “There are fearful secrets, 
the mere knowledge of which brings destruction.” 

“ But if I already know the secret of your royal highness ? 
—if I understand the reason of your grief during these last 
few days?” 

“ Well, then, tell me what you know.” 

The maiden bowed down low to the ear of her mistress. 
“Your eyes seek in vain for him whom you love. You 
suffer, for you know not where he is.” 

“Yes, you are right,” cried Amelia. “I suffer the an- 
guish of uncertainty. If I do not soon learn where he is, 
I shall die in despair.” 

“ Shall I tell you, princess?” 

Amelia turned pale and trembled. “ You will not say 
that he is in his grave?” said she, breathlessly. 

“No, your highness, he lives and is well.” 

“ He lives, is well, and comes not?” 

“He cannot come—he is a prisoner.” 

“A prisoner! God be thanked it is no worse! The king 
will obtain his liberation. My brother cares for his young 
officers—he will not leave him in the hands of the Austri- 
ans. Oh! I thank you—I thank you. You are indeed a 
messenger of glad tidings. And now the king will be 
pleased with me. I can be merry and laugh, and jest with 
him.” F 

Mademoiselle von Haak bowed her head sadly, and 
sighed. “He is not in an Austrian prison,” she said, in low 
tones. 

“Not in an, Austrian prison?” repeated Amelia, aston- 
ished, “ where is he, then? My God! why do you not speak? 
Where is Trenck? Who has captured him? Speak! I die 
with impatience and anxiety.” 

“In God’s name, princess, listen to me calmly, and above 
all things, speak softly. I am sure you are surrounded by 
spies. If we are heard, we are lost!” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 287 


“Do you wish me to die?” murmured the princess, sink- 
ing exhausted upon the divan. “ Where is Trenck?” 

“ He is in the fortress of Glatz,” whispered Von Haak. 

“ Ah! in a Prussian fortress; sent there by the king? 
He has committed some small fault in discipline, as once be- 
fore, and as this is the second offence, the king punishes him 
more severely. That is all! I thank you; you have restored 
my peace of mind.” 

“T fear, princess, that you are mistaken. It is said that 
Baron von Trenck has been arrested for high treason.” 

The princess became deadly pale, and almost fainted. 
She overcame this weakness, however, quickly, and said smil- 
ingly: “ He will then soon be free, for all must know that he 
is innocent.” 

“God grant that it may be proved!” said Mademoiselle 
von Haak. “This is no time to shrink or be silent. You 
have a great, strong heart, and you love him. You must 
know all! Listen, therefore, princess. I also love; I also 
look to the future with hope! My love is calm, for it is with- 
out danger; it has my mother’s consent and blessing. Our 
only hope is, that my lover may be promoted, and that the 
king will give his consent to our marriage. We are both 
poor, and rely only upon the favor of the king. He is now 
lieutenant, and is on duty in the garrison of Glatz.” 

“In Glatz! and you say that Trenck is a prisoner in 
Glatz?” 

“Yes, I received letters yesterday from Schnell. He be- 
longs to the officers who have guard over Trenck. He 
writes that he feels the profoundest pity for this young man, 
and that he will joyfully aid him in every way. He asks me 
if I know no one who has the courage to plead with the king 
in behalf of this unhappy youth.” 

“My God! my God! give me strength to hear all, and 
yet control myself!” murmured Amelia. “Do you know 
the nature of his punishment?” said she, quietly. 

“No one knows positively the duration of his punish- 
ment; but the commandant of the fort told the officers that 
Trenck would be a prisoner for many years.” 

The princess uttered one wild cry, then pressed both 
hands upon her lips and forced herself to silence. 


288 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ What is the charge against him?” she said, after a long 
pause. 

“High treason. <A treasonable correspondence has been 
discovered between him and his cousin the pandour.” 

The princess shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. 
“ He will soon justify himself, in view of this pitiful charge! 
His judges will acknowledge his innocence, and set him at 
liberty. But why is he not already free? Why has he been 
condemned? Who were his judges? Did you not say to 
me that he was condemned?” 

“ My lover wrote me that Baron Trenck had written to 
the king and asked for a court-martial and trial.” 

“This proves his innocence; he does not fear a trial! 
What was the king’s answer?” 

“He ordered the commandant to place Trenck in closer 
confinement, and to forward no more letters from him. And 
now, princess, you must act promptly; use all your power 
and influence, if you would save him!” 

“T have no influence, I have no power!” cried Amelia, 
with streaming eyes. “Oh! you do not know my brother; 
his heart is of stone. No one can move him—neither his 
mother, his sisters, nor his wife; his purpose is unchange- 
able, and what he says is fixed. But I will show him that 
I am his sister; that the hot blood of the Hohenzollerns 
flows also in my veins. I will seek him boldly; I will avow 
that I love Trenck; I will demand that he give Trenck lib- 
erty, or give me death! I will demand—” 

The door was hastily opened, and a servant said, breath- 
lessly, “ The king is coming!” 

“No, he is already here,” said the king, who now stood 
upon the threshold of the door. . “ He comes to beg his little 
sister to accompany him to the court-yard and see the rein- 
deer and the Laplanders, sent to us by the crown princess of 
Sweden.” 

The king advanced to his sister, and held out both his. 
hands. But Amelia did not appear to see this. She made 
a profound and ceremonious bow, and murmured a few coid 
words of greeting. The king frowned, and looked at her 
angrily. He saw that she had been weeping, and his ex- 
pression was harsh and stern. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 289 
“Come, princess! ” said he imperiously. 

But Amelia had now overcome her terror and her con- 
fusion. She was resolved to act, and know the worst. 

“ Will your majesty grant me an audience? I have some- 
thing important, most important to myself, to say. I would 
speak more to the heart of my brother than to the ear of my 
king. I pray your majesty to allow me to speak with you 
alone.” 

The king’s eyes were fixed upon her with a dark and 
threatening expression, but she did not look down or tremble ; 
she met his glance firmly, even daringly, and Frederick hesi- 
tated. “She will speak the whole truth to me,” thought the 
king, “and I shall be forced to act with severity against her. 
I cannot do this; I am not brave enough to battle with a 
maiden’s heart.” 

“ Sister,” said he aloud, “if you have indeed something 
to say to your brother, and not to the king, I counsel you not 
to speak now. I have so much to do and hear as a king, I 
have no time to act another part. Is what you have to say 
to me truly important? Does it relate to a rare jewel, 
or a costly robe?—to some debt, which your pin-money does 
not suffice to meet?—in short, to any one of those great 
matters which completely fill the heart of a young maiden? 
If so, I advise you to confide in our mother. If she makes 
your wishes known to me, you are sure to receive no denial. 
It is decidedly better for a young girl to turn to her mother 
with her little wishes and mysteries. If they are innocent, 
her mother will ever promote them; if they are guilty, a 
mother’s anger will be more restrained and milder than a 
brother’s ever can be.” 

“You will not even listen to me, my brother?” said the 
princess, sobbing violently. 

The king threw a quick glance backward toward the door 
opening into the corridor, where the cavaliers and maids of 
honor were assembled, and looking cuniously into the room 
of the princess. 

“No! I will not listen to you,” said he, in a low tone; 
“but you shall listen to me! You shall not act a drama at 
my court; you shall not give the world a cause for scandal; 
you shall not exhibit yourself with red and swollen eyes; 


290 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


that might be misinterpreted. It might be said that the 
sister of the king did not rejoice at the return of her brother; 
that she was not patriot enough to feel happy at Prussia’s 
release from the burdens of war, not patriot enough to 
despise and forget the enemies of her country! I com- 
mand you to be gay, to conceal your childish grief. A prin- 
cess dare not weep, or, if she does, it must be under the 
shadow of night, when God only is with her. This is my 
counsel and reproof, and I beg you to lay it to heart. I will 
not command you to accompany me, your eyes are red with 
weeping. Remain, then, in your room, and that the time 
may not pass heavily, I hand you this letter, which I have 
received for you.” 

He drew a sealed letter from his bosom, handed it to 
Amelia, and left the room. 

“Let us go,” said he, nodding to his courtiers; “the 
princess is unwell, and cannot accompany us.” 

Mademoiselle von Haak hastened again to the boudoir. 
“ Has your royal highness spoken to the king?” 

She shook her head silently, and with trembling hands 
tore open the letter given her by the king. Breathlessly she 
fixed her eyes upon the writing, uttered one wild shriek, and 
fell insensible upon the floor. This was the last letter she 
had written to Trenck, and upon the margin the king had 
written this one word, “ Read.” The king then knew all; 
he had read the letter; he knew of her engagement to 
Trenck, knew how she loved him, and he had no merey. For 
this was he condemned. He had given her this letter to 
prove to her that she had nothing to hope; that Trenck was 
punished, not for high treason against the state, but because 
he was the lover of the princess. 

Amelia understood all. With flashing eyes, with glowing 
cheeks, she exclaimed: “I will set him at liberty; he suffers: 
because he loves me; for my sake he languishes in a lonely 
prison. I will free him if it costs me my heart’s blood, 
drop by drop! Now, King Frederick, you shall see that I 
am indeed your sister; that I have a will even like your own. 
My life belongs to my beloved; if I cannot share it with him, 
I will offer it up to him—TI swear this; may God condemn me 
if I break my oath! Trenck shall be free! that is the mis- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 991 


sion of my life. Now, friend, come to my help; all that I 
am and have I offer up. I have gold, I have diamonds, I 
gave an estate given me by my father. I will sell all to 
liberate him; we will, if necessary, bribe the whole garrison. 
But now, before all other things, I must write to him.” 

“I promise he shall receive your letter,” said Mademoi- 
selle von Haak; “I will send it to Lieutenant Schnell. I 
will enclose it to my mother; no one here must know that I 
correspond with an officer at the fortress of Glatz.” 

“No one dare know that, till the day of Trenck’s libera- 
tion,” said Amelia, with a radiant smile. 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE UNDECEIVED. 


Since the day Joseph Fredersdorf introduced Lupinus 
to Eckhof, an affectionate intercourse had grown up between 
them. They were very happy in each other, and Fredersdorf 
asserted that there was more of love than friendship in their 
hearts, that Lupinus was not the friend but the bride of Eck- 
hof! In fact, Lupinrs had but little of the unembarrassed, 
frank, free manner of a young man. He was modest and 
reserved, never sought Eckhof; but when the latter came 
to him, his pale face colored with a soft red, and his great 
eyes flashed with a wondrous glow. Eckhof could rot but 
see how much his silent young friend rejoiced in his 
presence. 

He came daily to Lupinus. It strengthened and con- 
soled him in the midst of his nervous, restless artist-life, to 
look upon the calm, peaceful face of his friend; this alone, 
without a word spoken, soothed his heart—agitated by 
storms and passions, and made him mild and peaceable. The 
quiet room, the books and papers, the weighty folios, the 
shining, polished medical instruments, these stern realities, 
formed a strange and strong contrast to the dazzling, shim- 
mering, frivolous, false life of the stage; and all this exer- 

19 


292 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


cised a wondrous influence upon the artiste. Eckhof came 
often, weighed down with care and exhaustion, or in feverish 
excitement over some new Téle he was studying, not to 
speak of his anxieties and perplexities, but to sit silently 
near Lupinus and looked calmly upon him. 

“ Be silent, my Lupinus,” said Eckhof to him. “ Let me 
lay my storm-tossed, wild heart in the moonlight of thy 
glance; it will be warmed and cooled at the same time. Let 
thy mild countenance beam upon me, soften and heal my ach- 
ing heart. Look you, when I lay my head thus upon your 
shoulder, it seems to me I have escaped all trouble; that only 
far away in the distance do I hear the noise and tumult of 
the restless, busy world; and I hear the voice of my mother, 
even as I heard it in my childish days, whispering of God, 
of paradise, and the angels. Still, still, friend, let me dream 
thus upon your shoulder.” | 

He closed his eyes in silence, and did not see the fond 
and tender expression with which Lupinus looked down upon 
him. He did not feel how violently the young heart beat, 
how quick the hot breath came. 

At other times it was a consolation to Eckhof to relate, 
in passionate and eloquent words, all his sorrows and disap- 
pointments; all the strifes and contests; all his scorn over 
the intrigues and cabals which then, as now, were the neces- 
sary attendants of a stage-life. Lupinus listened till this 
wild cataract of rage had ceased to foam, and he might hope 
that his soft and loving words of consolation could find an 
entrance into Eckhof’s heart. 

Months went by, and Lupinus, faithful to the promise 
given to Eckhof, was still the thoughtful, diligent student; 
he sat ever in quiet meditation upon the bench of the eedir 
tory, and listened to the learned dissertations of the pro- 
fessors, and studied the secrets of science in his lonely room. 

But this time of trial was soon to be at an end. Eckhof 
agreed, that after Lupinus had passed his examination, he 
should decide for himself if he would abandon the glittering 
career of science for the rough and stormy path of artist- 
life. In the next few days this important event was to take 
place, and Lupinus would publicly and solemnly receive his 
diploma. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 993 


Lupinus thought but little of this. He knew that the 
events of that day must exercise an important influence upon 
his future, upon the happiness or unhappiness of his whole 
life. 

The day before the examination Lupinus was alone in his 
room. He said to himself, “If the faculty give me my 
diploma, I will show myself in my true form to Eckhof. I 
will step suddenly before him, and in his surprise I will see 
if his friend Lupinus is more welcome as—” 

He did not complete the sentence, but blushing crimson 
at his own thoughts, he turned away and took refuge in his 
books; but the excitement and agitation of his soul were 
stronger than his will; the letters danced and glimmered 
before his eyes; his heart beat joyfully and stormily; and 
his soul, borne aloft on bold wings, could no longer be held 
down to the dusty and dreary writing-desk; he sprang up, 
threw the book aside, and hastened to the adjoining room. 
No other foot had ever crossed the threshold of this still, 
small room; it was always closed against the most faithful 
of his friends. 

Besides, this little bedroom concealed a mystery—a mys- 
tery which would have excited the merriment of Fredersdorf 
and the wild amazement of Eckhof. On the bed lay a vest- 
ment which seemed utterly unsuited to the toilet of a young 
man; it was indeed a woman’s dress, a glistening white satin, 
such as young, fair brides wear on their wedding-day. 
There, upon the table lay small white, satin shoes, perfumed, 
embroidered pocket-handkerchiefs, ribbons, and flowers. 
What did this signify? what meant this feminine boudoir, 
next to the study of a young man? Was the beloved whom 
he wished to adorn with this bridal attire concealed there? 
or, was this only a costume in which he would play his first 
réle as an actor? 

Lupinus gazed upon all these costly things with a glad 
and happy heart, and as he raised the satin robe and danced 
smilingly to the great mirror, nothing of the grave, earnest, 
dignified scholar was to be seen in his mien; suddenly he 
paused, and stood breathlessly listening. It seemed to him 
some one knocked lightly on the outer door, then again 
louder. 


294 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ That is Eckhof,” whispered Lupinus. He left the mys- 
terious little room, hastily closed the door, and placed the key 
in his bosom, then opened the outer door. | 

Yes, i¢ was Eckhof. He entered with a beaming face, 
with a gay and happy smile. Lupinus had never seen him 
so joyous. He clasped his young friend so ardently in his 
arms, that he could scarcely breathe; he pressed so glowing 
a kiss upon his cheek, that Lupinus trembled, and was over- 
come by his own emotion. 

“See, Lupinus, how much I love you!” said Eckhof. 
“T come first to you, that you may sympathize with me in my 
great joy. Almost oppressed by the sense of heavenly bliss, 
which seemed in starry splendor to overshadow me, I thought, 
‘T must go to Lupinus; he alone will understand me.’ I am 
here to say to you, ‘ Rejoice with me, for I am happy.’ I 
ran like a madman through the streets. Oh! friend, you 
have not seen my sorrow; I have concealed the anguish of 
my soul. I loved you boundlessly, and I would not fill your 
young, pure soul with sadness. But you dared look upon my 
rapture; you, my most faithful, best-beloved friend, shall 
share my joy.” 

“Tell me, then, at once, what makes you happy?” said 
Lupinus, with trembling lips, and with the pallor of death 
from excitement and apprehension. 

“And you ask, my innocent and modest child,” said 
Eckhof, laughing. “ You do not yet know that love alone 
makes a man wretched or infinitely happy. I was despairing 
because I did not know if I was beloved, and this uncertainty 
made a madman of me.” 

“ And now?” said Lupinus. 

“ And now I am supremely happy—she loves me; she has 
confessed it this day. Oh! my friend, I almost tore this 
sweet, this heavenly secret from her heart. I threatened her, 
I almost cursed her. I lay at her feet, uttering wild words of 
rebuke and bitter reproach. I was mad with passion; re- 
solved to slay myself, if she did not then and there disclose 
to me either her love or her contempt. I dared all, to win 
all. She stood pallid and trembling before me, and, as I 
railed at her, she extended her arms humbly and pleadingly 
toward me. Oh! she was fair and beautiful as a pardoning 

, 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 9295 


angel, with these glistening tears in her wondrous, dreamy 
eyes, fair and beautiful as a houri of Paradise; when at last, 
carried away by her own heart, she bowed down and con- 
fessed that she loved me; that she would be mine—mine, in 
’ spite of her distinguished birth, in spite of all the thousand 
obstacles which interposed. One wild day I exclaimed, ‘ Oh! 
my God. my God! I am set apart to be an artiste; thou hast 
consecrated me by misfortune.’ To-day, I feel that only 
when I am truly happy can I truly create. From this day 
alone will I truly be an artiste. I have now received the 
heavenly consecration of happiness.” 

Eeckhof looked down upon his young friend. When he 
gazed upon the fair and ashy countenance, the glassy eyes 
staring without expression in the distance, the blue lips con- 
vulsively pressed together, he became suddenly silent. 

“Lupinus, you are ill! you suffer!” he said, opening 
his arms and trying to clasp his friend once more to his 
breast. But the touch of his hand made Lupinus tremble, 
and awakened him from his trance. One wild shriek rang 
from his bosom, a stream of tears gushed from his eyes, and 
he sank almost insensible to the floor. 

“My friend, my beloved friend!” cried Eckhof, “you 
suffer, and are silent. What is it that overpowers you? 
What is this great grief? Why do you weep? Let me share 
and alleviate your sorrow.” 

“No, no!” cried Lupinus, rising, “I do not suffer; I 
have no pain, no cause of sorrow. Do not touch me; your 
lightest touch wounds! Go, go! leave me alone!” 

“You love me not, then?” said Eckhof. “You suffer, 
and will not confide in me? you weep bitterly, and command 
me to leave you? ” 

“ And he thinks that I do not love him,” murmured Lu- 
pinus, with a weary smile. “My God! whom, then, do I 
love?” 

“Tf your friendship for me were true and genuine, you 
would trust me,” said Eckhof. “TI have made you share in 
my happiness, and I demand the holy right of sharing your 
grief.” 

Lupinus did not reply. Eckhof lifted him gently in his 
arms, and laying him upon the sofa, took a seat near him 


296 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


He laid his arms around him, placed his head upon his 
bosom, and in a soft, melodious voice, whispered words of 
comfort, encouragement, and love. The young man trem- 
bled convulsively, and wept without restraint. 

Suddenly he raised himself; the agony was over; his 
lips slightly trembled, but he pressed them together; his 
eyes were full of tears, but he shook his head proudly, and 
dashed them from him. 

“Tt is past, all past! my dream has dispersed. I am 
awake once more! ” 

“ And now, Lupinus, you will tell me all?” 

“No, not now, but to-morrow. To-morrow you’ shall 
know all. Therefore, go, my friend, and leave me alone. 
Go to her you love, gaze in her eyes, and see in them a starry 
heaven; then think of me, whose star is quenched, who is 
bowed down under a heavy load of affliction. Go! go! if 
you love me, go at once!” 

“T love you, therefore I obey you, but my heart is heavy 
for you, and my own happiness is clouded. But I go; to- 
morrow you will tell me all?” 

“ To-morrow.” 

“ But when, when do we meet again?” 

“To-morrow, at ten, we will see each other. At that 
time I am to receive my diploma. I pray you, bring Fre- 
dersdorf with you.” 

“So be it; to-morrow, at ten, in the university. Till 
then, farewell.” 

“ Farewell.” 

They clasped hands, looked deep into each other’s eyes, 
and took a silent leave. Lupinus stood in the middle of the 
room and gazed after Eckhof till he had reached the thresh- 
old, then rushed forward, threw himself upon his neck, 
clasped him in his arms, and murmured, in a voice choked 
with tears: “Farewell, farewell! Think of me, Eckhof! 
think that no woman has ever loved you as I have loved you! 
God bless you! God bless you, my beloved!” 

One last glowing kiss, one last earnest look, and he 
pushed him forward and closed the door; then with a wild 
ery sank upon the floor. 

How long he lay there, how long he wept, prayed, nid de- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 997 


spaired, he knew not himself. The hours of anguish drag 
‘slowly and drearily; the moments given to weeping seem to 
stretch out to eternity. Suddenly he heard heavy steps upon 
the stairs; he recognized them, and knew what they sig- 
nified. The door opened, and two men entered: the first 
with a proud, imposing form, with gray hair, and stern, 
strongly-marked features; the other, a young man, pale ana 
delicate, with a mild and soft countenance. 

The old man looked at Lupinus with a frowning brow 
and angry glance; the other greeted him with a sweet smile, 
and his clear blue eye rested upon him with an expression of 
undying love. 

“My father!” said Lupinus, hastening forward to throw 
himself into his arms; but he waved him back, and his look 
was darker, sterner. 

“We have received your letter, and therefore are we 
here to-day. We hope and believe it was written in fever or 
in madness. If we are mistaken in this, you shall repeat to 
us what was written in that letter, which I tore and trampled 
under my feet. Speak, then! we came to listen.” 

“Not so,” said the young man, “ recover yourself first; 
consider your words; reflect that they will decide the ques- 
tion of your own happiness, of your father’s, and of mine. 
Be firm and sure in your determination. Let no thought of 
others, no secondary consideration influence you. Think 
only of your own happiness, and endeavor to build it upon 
a sure foundation.” 

Lupinus shook his head sadly. “I have no happiness, I 
expect none.” 

“What was written in that letter?” said the old Lupinus 
sternly. 

“That I had been faithful to my oath, and betrayed the 
secret I promised you to guard, to no one; that to-morrow I 
would receive my diploma; that you had promised, when I 
had accomplished this I should be free to choose my own 
future, and to confess my secret.” 

“Was that all the letter contained?” 

* No—that I had resolved to choose a new career, re- 
solved to leave the old paths, to break away from the past, 
and begin a new life at Eckhof’s side.” 


998 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“My child at the side of a comedian!” cried the old 
doctor contemptuously. “Yes, I remember that was writ- 
ten, but I believed it not, and therefore have I come. Was 
your letter true? Did you write the truth to Ervelman?” 

Lupinus cast his eyes down, and gave his hand to his 
father. “No,” said he, “it was not true; it was a fantasy of 
fever. It is past, and I have recovered. To-morrow, after 
I receive my diploma, I will accompany you home, and you, 
friend, will go with us.” 

The next day the students rushed in crowds to the uni- 
versity to listen to the discourse of the learned and worthy 
Herr Lupinus. Not only the students and the professors, 
but many other persons, were assembled in the hall to honor 
the young man, of whom the professors said that he was not 
only a model of scholarship, but of modesty and virtue. 
Even actors were seen to grace the holy halls of science on 
this occasion, and the students laughed with delight and 
eried “ Bravo!” as they recognized near Fredersdorf the 
noble and sharp profile of Eckhof. They had often rushed 
madly to the theatre; why should he not sometimes honor 
the university ? 

But Eckhof was indifferent to the joyful greeting of the 
students; he gazed steadily toward the door, through which 
his young friend must enter the hall; and now, as the hour 
struck, he stooped over Fredersdorf and seized his hand. 

“Friend,” said he, “a wondrous anxiety oppresses me. 
It seems to me I am in the presence of a sphinx, who is in 
the act of solving a great mystery! I am a coward, and 
would take refuge in flight, but curiosity binds me to my 
seat.” 

“You promised poor Lupinus to be here,” said Fre- 
dersdorf, earnestly. “It is, perhaps, the last friendly ser- 
vice you can ever show him— Ah! there he is.” 

A ery of surprise burst from the lips of all. There, in 
the open door, stood, not the student Lupinus, but a young 
maiden, in a white satin robe—a young maiden with the 
pale, thoughtful, gentle face of Lupinus. A man stood on 
each side of her, and she leaned upon the arm of one of them, 
as if for support, as they walked slowly through the room. 
Her large eyes wandered questioningly and anxiously over 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 999 


the audience; and now, her glance met Eckhof’s, and a dead- 
ly pallor covered her face. She tried to smile, and bowed 
her head in greeting. 

“This is the secret from which I wished to fly,” mur- 
mured Eckhof. “I guessed it yesterday.” 

“T knew it long since,” said Fredersdorf, sadly; “it was 
my most beautiful and cherished dream that your hearts 
should find and love each other. Have I not often told you 
that Lupinus was not your friend, but your bride; that no 
woman would ever love you as he did? You would not 
understand me. Your heart was of stone, and her happiness 
has been crushed by it.” 

“Poor, unhappy girl!” sighed Eckhof, and tears ran 
slowly down his cheeks. “I have acted the part of a bar- 
barian toward you! Yesterday with smiling lips I pressed 
a dagger in her heart; she did not curse, but blessed me!” 

“ Listen! she speaks!” 

It was the maiden’s father who spoke. In simple phrase 
he asked forgiveness of the Faculty, for having dared to 
send them a daughter, in place of a son. But it had been 
his cherished wish to prove that only the arrogance and 
prejudice of men had banished women from the universities. 
Heaven had denied him a son. He had soon discovered that 
his daughter was rarely endowed; he determined to educate 
her as a son, and thus repair the loss fate had prepared for 
him. His daughter entered readily into his plans, and sol- 
emnly swore to guard her secret until she had completed her 
studies. She had fulfilled this promise, and now stood here 
to ask the Faculty if they would grant a woman a diploma. 

The professors spoke awhile with each other, and then 
announced to the audience that Lupinus had been the most 
industrious and promising of all their students; the pride 
and favorite of all the professors. The announcement that 
she was a woman would make no change in her merit or 
their intentions; that the maiden Lupina would be re- 
ceived by them with as much joy and satisfaction as the 
youth Lupinus would have been. The disputation might 
now begin. 

A murmur of applause was heard from the benches, and 
now the clear, soft, but slightly trembling voice of the young 


300 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


girl commenced to read. How strangely did the heavy, 
pompous Latin words contrast with the slight, fairy form 
of the youthful girl! She stood adorned like a bride, in satin 
array; not like a bride of earth, inspired by love, but a bride 
of heaven, in the act of laying down before God’s altar all 
her earthly hopes and passions! She felt thus. She dedi- 
cated herself to a joyless and unselfish existence at the altar 
of science; she would not lead an idle, useless, musing, 
cloister-life. With a holy oath she swore to serve her race; 
to soothe the pain of those who suffered; to stand by the 
sick-beds of women and children; to give that love to suffer- 
ing, weeping humanity which she had once consecrated to 
one alone, and which had come home, like a bleeding dove, 
with broken wings, powerless and hopeless! 

The disputation was at an end. The deacon declared the 
maiden, Dorothea Christine Lupinus, a doctor. The stu- 
dents uttered wild applause, and the professors drew near the 
old Lupinus, to congratulate him, and to renew the acquaint- 
ance of former days. 

The fair young Bride of Arts thought not of this. She 
looked toward Eckhof; their glances were rooted in each 
other firmly but tearlessly. She waved to him with her hand, 
and obedient to her wish he advanced to the door, then 
turned once more; their eyes met, and she had the courage 
to leok softly upon the friend of her youth, Ervelman, who 
had accompanied her father, and say: 

“T will fulfil my father’s vow—lI will be a faithful wife. 
Look, you, Ervelman, the star has gone out which blinded 
my eyes, and now I see again clearly.” She pointed, with a 
trembling hand, to Eckhof, who was disappearing. 

“Friend,” said Eckhof, to Fredersdorf, “if the gods truly 
demand a great sacrifice as a propitiation, I think I have of- 
fered one this day. I have cast my Polycrates’ ring into the 
sea, and a part of my heart’s blood was cleaving to it. May 
fate be reconciled, and grant me the happiness this pale and 
lovely maiden has consecrated with her tears. Farewell, 
Christine, farewell! Our paths in life are widely separated. 
Who knows, perhaps we will meet again in heaven? You 
belong to the saints, and I am a poor comedian, who makes 
a false show throughout a wild, tumultuous life, with some 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 301 


pompous shreds and tatters of art and beauty, to whom, per- 
haps, the angels in heaven will deny a place, even as the 
priests on earth deny him a grave.” * 


CHAPTER XIL. 


TRENCK’S FIRST FLIGHT. 


“THs is, then, the day of his liberation?” said Princess 
Amelia to her confidante, Mademoiselle von Haak. “ To- 
day, after five months of torture, he will again be free, will 
again enjoy life and liberty. And to me, happy princess, 
will he owe all these blessings; to me, whom God has per- 
mitted to survive all these torments, that I might be the 
means of effecting his deliverance, for, without doubt, our 
work will succeed, will it not?” 

“ Undoubtedly,” said Ernestine von Haak; “ we shall and 
must succeed.” 

“ Let us reconsider the whole plan, if only to enliven the 
tedious hours with pleasant thought. When the comman- 
dant of the prison, Major von Doo, pays the customary Sun- 
day-morning visit to Trenck’s cell, and while he is carefully 
examining every nook to assure himself that the captive 
nobleman has not been endeavoring to make a pathway to 
liberty, Trenck will suddenly overpower him, deprive him 
of his sword, and rush past him out of the cell. At the door 
he will be met by the soldier Nicolai, who is in our confi- 
dence, and will not seem to notice his escape. Once over the 
palisades, he will find a horse, which we have placed in readi- 
ness. Concealed by the military cloak thrown over him, and 
armed with the pistols with which his saddle-holsters have 
been furnished, he will fly on the wings of the wind toward 
Bohemia. Near the border, at the village of Lénnschiitz, a 
second horse will await him. He will mount and hurry on 


* Eckhof lived to awake respect and love for the national theatre through- 
out all Germany. He had his own theatre in Gotha, where he was born, and 
where he died in 1778. He performed the double service of exalting the 
German stage, and obtaining for the actors consideration and respect. 


302 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


until the boundary and liberty are obtained. All seems so 
safe, Ernestine, so easy of execution, that I can scarcely be- 
lieve in the possibility of a failure.” 

“Tt will not fail,” said Ernestine von Haak. “Our 
scheme is good, and will be ably assisted—it must succeed.” 

. “ Provided he find the places where the horses stand con- 
cealed.” 

“These he cannot fail to find. They are accurately 
designated in a little note which my lover, when he has 
charge of the prison-yard, will contrive to convey to him. 
Schnell’s known fidelity vouches for the horses being in 
readiness. As your royal highness was not willing that we 
should enlist accomplices among the soldiers, the only ques- 
tion that need give us uneasiness is this: Will Trenck be 
able to overcome unaided all obstacles within the fortifica- 
tions?” 

“No,” said Amelia, proudly; “ Trenck shall be liberated, 
but I will not corrupt my brother’s soldiers. To do the first, 
is my right and my duty, for I love Trenck. Should I do the 
second, I would be guilty of high treason to my king, and this 
even love could not excuse. Only to himself and to me shall 
Trenck owe his freedom. Our only allies shall be my means 
and his own strength. He has the courage of a hero and the 
strength of a giant. He will force his way through his ene- 
mies like Briareus; they will fall before him like grain be- 
fore the reaper. If he cannot kill them all with his sword, 
he will annihilate them with the lightning of his glances, 
for a heavenly power dwells in his eyes. Moreover, your 
lover writes that he is beloved by the officers of the garrison, 
that all the soldiers sympathize with him. It is well that it 
is not necessary to bribe them with miserable dross; Trenck 
has already bribed them with his youth and manly beauty, 
his misfortunes and his amiability. He will find no opposi. 
tion; no one will dispute his passage to liberty.” 

“God grant that it may be as your highness predicts! ” 
said Ernestine, with a sigh. 

“Four days of uncertainty are still before us—would 
that they had passed!” exclaimed Princess Amelia. “I 
have no doubts of his safety, but I fear I shall not survive 
these four days of anxiety. Impatience will destroy me. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 303 


I had the courage to endure misery, but I feel already that 
the expectation of happiness tortures me. God grant, at 
least, that his freedom is secured! ” 

“ Never speak of dying with the rosy cheeks and spark- 
ling eyes your highness has to-day,” said Mademoiselle von 
Haak, with a smile. “ Your increasing pallor, caused no 
doubt by your grief, has given me much pain. I am no 
longer uneasy, however, for you have recovered health and 
strength, now that you are again hopeful. As for the four 
days of expectancy, we will kill them with merry laughter, 
gayety, and dancing. Does not the queen give a ball to-day? 
is there not a masquerade at the opera to-morrow? For 
the last five months your highness has taken part in these 
festivities because you were compelled; you will now do so 
of your own accord. You will no longer dance because the 
king commands, but because you are young, happy, and full 
of hope for the future. On the first and second day you will 
dance and fatigue yourself so much, that you will have the 
happiness of sleeping a great deal on the third. The fourth 
day will dawn upon your weary eyes, and whisper in your 
ear that Trenck is free, and that it is you who have given 
him his freedom.” 

“Yes, let us be gay, let us laugh, dance, and be merry,” 
exclaimed Princess Amelia. “ My brother shall be satisfied 
with me; he need no longer regard me in so gloomy and 
threatening a manner; I will laugh and jest, I will adorn 
myself, and surpass all the ladies with the magnificence of 
my attire and my sparkling eyes. Come, Ernestine, come. 
We will arrange my toilet for this evening. It shall be mag- 
nificent. I will wear flowers in my hair and flowers on my 
‘breast, but no pearls. Pearls signify tears, and I will weep 
no more.” 

Joyously she danced through the room, drawing her 
friend to the boudoir; joyously she passed the three follow- 
ing days of expectation; joyously she closed her eyes on the 
evening of the third day, to see, in her dreams, her lover 
kneeling at her feet, thanking her for his liberty, and vowing 
eternal fidelity and gratitude. 

Amelia greeted the fourth day with a happy smile, never 
doubting but that it would bring her glad tidings. But 


3804 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


hours passed away, and still Mademoiselle von Haak did not 
appear. Amelia had said to her: “I do not wish to see you 
to-morrow until you can bring me good news. This will, 
however, be in your power at an early hour, and you shall 
flutter into my chamber with these tidings, like the dove 
with the olive-branch.” _— 

Mademoiselle von Haak has still not yet arrived. But 
now the door opens—she is there, but her face is pale, her 
eyes tearful; and this pale lady in black, whose noble and 
beautiful features recall to Amelia such charming and de- 
lightful remembrances—who is she? What brings her here? 
Why does she hurry forward to the princess with streaming 
eyes? Why does she kneel, raise her hands imploringly, 
and whisper, “ Mercy, Princess Amelia, mercy! ” 

Amelia rises from her seat, pale and trembling, gazes 
with widely extended eyes at the kneeling figure, and, al- 
most speechless with terror, asks in low tones, “ Who are 
you, madame? What do you desire of me?” 

The pale woman at her feet cries in heart-rending ac- 
cents, “I am the mother of the unfortunate Frederick von 
Trenck, and I come to implore mercy at the hands of your 
royal highness. My son attempted to escape, but God did 
not favor his undertaking. He was overtaken by misfor- 
tune, after having overcome almost all obstacles, when noth- 
ing but the palisades separated him from liberty and safety; 
he was attacked by his pursuers, disarmed, and carried back 
to prison, wounded and bleeding.” * 

Amelia uttered a cry of horror, and fell back on her seat 
pale and breathless, almost senseless. Mademoiselle von 
Haak took her gently in her arms, and, amid her tears, whis- 
pered words of consolation, of sympathy, and of hope. But 
Amelia scarcely heeded her; she looked down vacantly upon 
the pallid, weeping woman who still knelt at her feet. 

“ Have mercy, princess, have mercy! You alone can as- 
sist me; therefore have I come to you; therefore have I 
entreated Mademoiselle von Haak with tears until she could 
no longer refuse to conduct me to your presence. Regard- 
less, at last, of etiquette and ceremony, she permitted me to 
fall at your feet, and to ery to you for help. You are an 


* Trenck’s Biography, i., 80. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 305 


angel of goodness and mercy; pity an unfortunate mother, 
who wishes to save her son!” 

“ And you believe that I can do this? ” said Amelia, 
breathlessly. 

“You alone, royal highness, have the power to save my 
son’s life!” 

“Tell me by what means, countess, and I will save him, 
if it costs my heart’s blood.” 

“Conduct me to the king. That is all that I require of 
you. He has not yet been informed of my son’s unfortunate 
attempt. I must be the first to bring him this intelligence. I 
will confess that it was I who assisted my son in this at- 
tempt, who bribed the non-commissioned officer, Nicolai, 
with flattery and tears, with gold and promises; that it was I 
who placed the horses and loaded pistols in readiness beyond 
the outer palisade; that I sent my son the thousand ducats 
which were found on his person; that I wrote him the letter 
containing vows of eternal love and fidelity. The king will 
pardon a mother who, in endeavoring to liberate her son, left 
no means of success untried.” 

“You are a noble, a generous woman!” exclaimed the 
princess, with enthusiasm. “ You are worthy to be Trenck’s 
mother! You say that I must save him, and you have come 
to save me! But I will not accept this sacrifice; I will not 
be cowardly and timidly silent, when you have the courage 
to speak. Let the king know all; let him know that Trenck 
was not the son, but the lover of her who endeavored to give 
him his freedom, and that—” 

“Tf you would save him, be silent! The king can be 
merciful when it was the mother who attempted to liberate 
the son; he will be inexorable if another has made this mad 
attempt; and, above all, if he cannot punish the transgressor, 
my son’s punishment will be doubled.” 

“Listen to her words, princess, adopt her counsel,” whis- 
pered the weeping Ernestine. “ Preserve yourself for the 
unfortunate Trenck; protect his friends by your silence, 
and we may still hope to form a better and happier plan 
of escape.” 

“Be it so,” said the princess with a sigh. “I will bring 
him this additional sacrifice. I will be silent. God knows 


a 


306 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


that I would willingly lay down my life for him. I would 
find this easier than to veil my love in cowardly silence. 
Come, I will conduct you to the king.” 

“But I have not yet told your royal highness that the 
king is in his library, and has ordered that no one should be 
admitted to his presence.” 

“T will be admitted. I will conduct you through the 
private corridor and the king’s apartments, and not by the 
way of the grand antechamber. Come.” 

She seized the countess’s hand and led her away. 

The king was alone in his library, sitting at a table cov- 
ered with books and papers, busily engaged in writing. 
From time to time he paused, and thoughtfully regarded 
what he had written. “I have commenced a new work, 
which it is to be hoped will be as great a success in the field 
of science as several that I have achieved vith the sword 
on another field. I know my wish and my aim; I have 
undertaken a truly noble task. I will write the history of 
my times, not in the form of memoirs, nor as a commentary, 
but as a free, independent, and impartial history. I will 
describe the decline of Europe, and will endeavor to portray 
the follies and weaknesses of her rulers.* My respected col- 
leagues, the kings and princes, have provided me with rich 
materials for a ludicrous picture. To do this work justice, 
the pencil of a Héllenbreughel and the pen of a Thucydi- 
des were desirable. Ah! glory is so piquant a dish, that 
the more we indulge, the more we thirst after its enjoy- 
ment. Why am [I not satisfied with being called a good gen- 
eral? why do I long for the honor of being crowned in the 
capitol? Well, it certainly will not be his holiness the pope 
who crowns me or elevates me to the rank of a saint—truly, 
I am not envious of such titles. I shall be contented if pos- 
terity shall call me a good prince, a brave soldier, and a good 
lawgiver, and forgives me for having sometimes mounted 
the Pegasus instead of the war horse.” 

With a merry smile, the king now resumed his writing. 
The door which communicated with his apartments was 
opened softly, and Princess Amelia, her countenance pale 


* The king’s own words. “(fuvres posthumes: Correspondance avec 
Voltaire.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 307 


and sorrowful, looked searchingly into the room. Seeing 
that the king was still writing, she knocked gently. The 
king turned hastily and angrily. 

“Did I not say that I desired to be alone?” said he, in- 
dignantly. Perceiving his sister, he now arose, an ex- 
pression of anxiety pervading his countenance. “Ah, my 
sister! your. sad face proclaims you the bearer of bad news,” 
said he; “ and very important : it must have been to bring you 
unannounced to my presence.” 

“ My brother, misfortune has always the privilege of com- 
ing unannounced to the presence of princes, to implore pity 
and mercy at their hands. I claim this holy privilege for 
the unfortunate lady who has prayed for my intercession in 
her behalf. Sire, will you graciously accord her an audi- 
ence?” 

“ Who is she?” asked the king, discontentedly. 

“Sire, it is the Countess Lostange,” said Amelia, im a 
searcely audible voice. 

“The mother of the rebellious Lieutenant von Trenek!” 
exclaimed the king, in an almost threatening tone, his eyes 
flashing angrily. 

“Yes, it is the mother of the unfortunate Von Trenck 
who implores mercy of your majesty!” exclaimed the ecount- 
ess, falling on her knees at the threshold of the door. 

The king recoiled a step, and his eye grew darker. 
“Really, you obtain your audiences in a daring manner— 
you conquer them, and make the princess your herald.” 

“Sire, I was refused admission. In the anguish of my 
heart, I turned to the princess, who was generous enough to 
ineur the displeasure of her royal brother for my sake.” 

“ And was that which you had to say really so urgent?” 

“Sire, for five months has my son been languishing in 
prison, and you ask if there is an urgent necessity for his 
mother’s appeal. My son has incurred your majesty’s dis- 
pleasure; why, I know not. He is a prisoner, and stands 
accused of I know not what. Be merciful—let me know his 
crime, that I may endeavor to atone for it.” 

“Madame, a mother is not responsible for her son; a 
woman cannot atone for a man’s crimes. Leave your son to 
his destiny; it may be a brighter one at some future day, 

20 


308 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


if he is wise and prudent, and heeds the warning which is 
now knocking at his benighted heart.” At these words, the 
king’s glance rested for a moment on the countenance of the 
princess, as if this warning had also been intended for her. 

“Tt is, then, your majesty’s intention to cheer a mother’s 
heart with hope? My son will not be long a captive. You 
will pardon him for this crime of which I have no knowledge, 
and which you do not feel inclined to mention.” 

“ Shall I make it known to you, madame?” said the king, 
with severity. ‘“ He carried on an imprudent and treason- 
able correspondence, and if tried by court-martial, would be 
found guilty of high treason. But, in consideration of his 
youth, and several extenuating circumstances with which 
I alone am acquainted, I will be lenient with him. Be satis- 
fied with this assurance: in a year your son will be free; and 
when solitude has brought him to reflection, and the con- 
sciousness of his crime, when he is more humble and wiser, 
I will again be a gracious king to him.* Write this to your 
son, madame, and receive my best wishes for yourself.” 

“ Oh, sire, you do not yet know all. I have another con- 
fession to make, and— 

A light knock at the door communicating with the ante- 
chamber interrupted her, and a voice from the outside ex- 
claimed: “Sire, a courier with important dispatches from 
Silesia.” 

“ Retire to the adjoining apartment, and wait there,” said 
the king, turning to his sister. 

Both ladies left the room. 

“Dispatches from Silesia,” whispered the countess. 
“The king will now learn all, I fear.” 

“Well, if he does,” said the princess, almost defiantly, 
“we are here to save him, and we will save him.” 

A short time elapsed; then the door was violently thrown 
open, and the king appeared on the threshold, his eyes flash- 
ing with anger. 

“Madame,” said he, pointing to the papers which he held 
in his hand, “ from these papers I have undoubtedly learned 
what it was your intention to have communicated to me. 
Your son has attempted to escape from prison like a cowardly 


* Trenck’s Memoirs, i., 82. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 309 


criminal, a malefactor weighed down with guilt. In this at- 
tempt he has killed and wounded soldiers, disarmed the 
governor of the fortress, and, in his insolent frenzy, has en- 
deavored to scale the palisades in broad daylight. Madame, 
nothing but the consciousness of his own guilt could have 
induced him to attempt so daring a flight, and he must have 
had criminal accomplices who advised him to this step—ac- 
complices who bribed the sentinel on duty before his door; 
who secretly conveyed money to him, and held horses in 
readiness for his flight. Woe to them if I should ever dis- 
cover the criminals who treasonably induced my soldiers and 
officers to break their oath of fidelity! ” 

“T, your majesty, I was this criminal,” said the countess. 
“ A mother may well dare to achieve the freedom of her son 
at any price. It is her privilege to defend him with any 
weapon. I bribed the soldiers, placed the horses in readi- 
ness, and conveyed money to my son. It was Trenck’s 
mother who endeavored to liberate him.” 

“And you have only brought him to greater, to more 
hopeless misery! For now, madame, there can be no mercy. 
The fugitive, the deserter, has forfeited the favor of his 
king. Shame, misery, and perpetual captivity will hence- 
forth be his rortion. This is my determination. Hope for 
no mercy. The articles of war condemn the deserter to 
death. I will give him his life, but freedom I cannot give 
him, for I now know that he would abuse it. Farewell.” 

“ Mercy! mercy for my son!” sobbed the countess. “He 
is so young! he has a long life before him.” 

“A life of remorse and repentance,” said the king with 
severity. “I will accord him no other. Go!” 

He was on the point of reéntering the library. A hand 
was laid on his shoulder; he turned and saw the pale counte- 
nance of his sister. 

“ My brother,” said the princess, in a firm voice, “ permit 
me to speak with you alone for a moment. Proceed, I will 
follow you.” 

Her bearing was proud, almost dictatorial. Her sternly 
tranquil manner, her clear and earnest brow, showed plainly 
that she had formed an heroic determination. She was no 
longer the young girl, timidly praying for her lover; she was 


310 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


the fearless woman, determined to defend him, or die for 
him. The king read this in her countenance, it was plainly 
indicated in her royal bearing; and with the reverence and 
consideration which great spirits ever accord to misfortune, 
he did homage to this woman toward whom he was so strong- 
ly drawn by sympathy and pity. 

“ Come, my sister, come,” said he, offering his hand. 

Amelia did not take his hand; by his side she walked into 
the library, and softly locked the door behind ker. One mo- 
ment she rested against the wall, as if to gather strength. 
The king hastily crossed the room, and looked out at the 
window. Hearing the rustle of her dress behind him, he 
turned and advanced toward the princess. She regarded 
him fixedly with cold and tearless eyes. 

“Ts it sufficient if I promise never to see him again?” 
said she. 

“The promise is superfluous, for I will make a future 
meeting impossible.” 

She inclined her head slightly, as if this answer had been 
expected. 

“Ts it enough if I swear never to write to him again, 
nevermore to give him a token of my love?” 

“T would not believe this oath. If I set him at liberty 
he would compromise you and your family, by boasting of a 
love which yielded to circumstances and necessity only, and 
not to reason and indifference. J will make you no re- 
proaches at present, for I think your conscience is doing that 
for me. But this much I will say: I will not set him at 
liberty until he no longer believes in your love.” 

“Will you liberate him if I rob him of this belief? If 
T hurl the broken bond of my promised faith in his face? If 
T tell him that fear and cowardice have extinguished my 
love, and that I bid him farewell forever?” 

“ Write him this, and I promise you that he shall be free 
in a few months; but, understand me well, free to go where 
he will, but banished from my kingdom.” 

“ Shall I write at once?” said she with an expression of 
utter indifference, and with icy tranquillity. 

“Write; you will find all that is necessary on my és- 
critoire.” 


—— 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 311 


She walked composedly to the table and seated herself. 
When she commenced writing, a deathly pallor came over her 
face; her breath came and went hurriedly and painfully. 
The king stood near, regarding her with an expression of 
deep solicitude. 

“Have you finished?” said he, as she pushed the paper 
aside on which she had been writing. 

“No,” said she calmly, “ it was only a tear that had fallen 
on the paper. I must begin again.” And with perfect com- 
posure she took another sheet of paper, and began writing 
anew. 

The king turned away with a sigh. He felt that if he 
longer regarded this pale, resigned face, he would lose sight 
of reason and duty, and restore to her her lover. He again 
advanced to the window, and looked thoughtfully out at the 
sky. “Is it possible? can it be?” he asked himself. “ May 
I forget my duties as head of my family, and only remember 
that she is my sister, and that she is suffering and weeping? 
Must we then all pay for this empty grandeur, this frippery 
of earthly magnificence, with our heart’s blood and our best 
hopes? And if I now deprive her of her dreams of happiness, 
what compensation can I offer? With what can I replace 
her hopes, her love, the happiness of her youth? At the best, 
with a little earthly splendor, with the purple and the crown, 
and eventually, perhaps, with my love. Yes, I will love her 
truly and cordially; she shall forgive the brother for the 
king’s harshness; she shall—” 

“T have finished,” said the sad voice of his sister. 

The king turned from the window; Amelia stood at the 
escritoire, holding the paper on which she had been writing 
in one hand, and sustaining herself by the table with the 
other. 

“Read what you have written,” said the king, approach- 
ing her. 

The princess bowed her head and read: 

“T pity you, but your misfortune is irremediable; and I 
cannot and will not attempt to alleviate it, for fear of com- 
promising myself. This is, therefore, my last letter—I can 
risk nothing more for you. Do not attempt to write to me, 
for I should return your letter unopened. Our separation 


312 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


must be forever, but I will always remain your friend; and 
if I can ever serve you hereafter, I will do so gladly. Fare- 
well, unhappy friend, you deserve a better fate.” * 

“That is all?” said the king, as his sister ceased read- 
ing. 
“ That is all, sire.” 

“ And you imagine that he will no longer believe in your 
love, when he receives this letter?” said the king, with a 
sad smile. 

“T am sure he will not, for I tell him in this letter that 
I will risk nothing more for him; that I will not even at- 
tempt to alleviate his misery. Only when one is cowardly 
enough to sacrifice love to selfish fears, could one do this. I 
shall have purchased his liberty with his contempt.” 

“ What would you have written if you had been permitted 
to follow the promptings of your heart?” 

A rosy hue flitted over her countenance, and love 
beamed in her eyes. “I would have written, ‘ Believe in me, 
trust in me! For henceforth the one aim of my life will be 
to liberate you. Let me die when I have attained this aim, 
but die in the consciousness of having saved you, and of hav- 
ing been true to my love.’ ” 

“You would have written that?” 

“T would have written that,” said she, proudly and joy- 
fully. “And the truth of that letter he would not have 
doubted.” 

“Oh, woman’s heart!” inexhaustible source of love and 
devotion!” murmured the king, turning away to conceal 
his emotion from his sister. 

“Ts this letter sufficient?” demanded the princess. 
“Shall Trenck be free?” 

“T have promised it, and will keep my word. Fold the 
letter and-direct it. It shall be forwarded at once.” 

“ And when will he be free?” 

“T cannot set him at liberty immediately. It would be 
setting my officers a bad example. But in three months he 
shall be free.” 

“In three months, then. Here is the letter, sire.” 

The king took the letter and placed it in his bosom. 


* Trenck’s Memoirs, i., 86. 


— 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 313 


And now, my sister, come to my heart,” said he, holding 
out his arms. “The king was angry with you, the brother 
will weep with you. Come, Amelia, come to your brother’s 
heart.” 

Amelia did not throw herself in his arms; she stood still, 
and seemed not to have heard, not to have understood his 
words. 

“T pray that your majesty will allow me to retire,” said 
she. “I think we have finished—we have to other business 
to transact.” 

“Oh! my sister,” said Frederick, mournfully, “ think of 
what you are doing; do not harden your heart against me. 
Believe me, I suffer with you; and if the only question were 
the sacrifice of my personal wishes, I would gladly yield. 
But I must consider my ancestors, the history of my house, 
and the prejudices of the world. Amelia, I cannot, I dare 
not do otherwise. Forgive me, my sister. And now, once 
more, let us hold firmly to each other in love and trust. Let 
me fold you to my heart.” 

He advanced and extended his hand, but his sister slowly 
recoiled. 

“ Allow me to remind your majesty that a poor unhappy 
woman is awaiting a word of consolation in the next room, 
and that this woman is Trenck’s mother. She, at least, will 
be happy when I inform her that her son will soon be free. 
Permit me, therefore, sire, to take my leave, and bear her 
this good news.” 

She bowed formally and profoundly, and walked slowly 
across the room. The king no longer endeavored to hold her 
back. He followed her with a mournful, questioning glance, 
still hoping that she would turn and seek a reconciliation. 
She reached the door, now she turned. The king stepped 
forward rapidly, but Princess Amelia bowed ceremoniously 
and disappeared. 

“Lost! I have lost her,” sighed the king. “ Oh, my God! 
must I then part from all that I love? Was it not enough to 
lose my friends by death? will cruel fate also rob me of a 
loved and living sister? Ah! I am a poor, a wretched man, 
and yet they call me a king.” 

Frederick slowly seated himself, and covered his face 


314 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


with his hands. He remained in this position for a long 
time, his sighs being the only interruption to the silence 
which reigned in the apartment. 

“ Work! I will work,” said he proudly. “ This is at least 
a consolation, and teaches forgetfulness.” — 

He walked hurriedly to his escritoire, seated himself, and 
regarded the manuscripts and papers which lay before him. 
He took up one of the manuscripts and began to read, but 
with an impatient gesture he soon laid it aside. 

“The letters swim before my eyes in inextricable confu- 
sion. My God, how hard it is to.do one’s duty!” 

He rested his head on his hand, and was lost in thought 
for a long time. Gradually his expression brightened, and a 
wondrous light beamed in his eyes. 

“Yes,” said he, with a smile, “ yes, so it shall be. I have 
just lost a much-loved sister. Well, it is customary to erect 
a monument in memory of those we love. Poor, lost sister, 
I will erect a monument to your memory. The king has 
been compelled to make his sister unhappy, and for this he 
will endeavor to make his people happy. And if there is no 
law to which a princess can appeal against the king, there 
shall at least be laws for all my subjects, which protect them, 
and are in strict accordance with reason, with justice, and 
the godly principle of equality. Yes, I will give my people a 
new code of laws.* This, Amelia, shall be the monument 
which I will erect to you in my heart. In this very hour I 
will write to Cocceji, and request him to sketch the outlines 
of this new code of laws.” 

The king seized his pen and commenced writing. “The 
judges,” said he, hastily penning his words, “the judges must 
administer equal and impartial justice to all without re- 
spect to rank or wealth, as they expect to answer for the same 
before the righteous judgment-seat of God, and in order that 
the sighs of the widows and orphans, and of all that are op- 
pressed, may not be visited upon themselves and their chil- 
dren. No rescripts, although issued from this cabinet, shall 
be deemed worthy of the slightest consideration, if they 
contain aught manifestly incompatible with equity, or if the 
strict course of justice is thereby hindered or interrupted; 


* Rédenbeck, Diary, p. 187. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 315 


but the judges shall proceed according to the dictates of duty 
and conscience.” 

The king continued writing, his countenance becoming 
more and more radiant with pleasure, while his pen flew over 
the paper. He was so completely occupied with his thoughts 
that he did not hear the door open behind him, and did not 
perceive the merry and intelligent face of his favorite, Gen- 
eral Rothenberg, looking in. 

The king wrote on. Rothenberg stooped ‘and placed 
something which he held in his arms on the floor. He looked 
over toward the king, and then at the graceful little grey- 
hound which stood quietly before him. This was no other 
than the favorite dog of the king, which had been lost and a 
captive.* 

The little Biche stood still for a moment, looking around 
intelligently, and then ran lightly across the apartment, 
sprang upon the table and laid its forepaw on the king’s 
neck. 

“ Biche, my faithful little friend, is it you?” said Fred- 
erick, throwing his pen aside and taking the little animal in 
his arms. Biche began to bark with delight, nestle closely to 
her master, and look lovingly at him with her bright little 
eyes. And the king—he inclined his face on the head of his 
faithful little friend, and tears ran slowly down his cheeks.t 

“You have not forgotten me, my little Biche? Ah, if 
men were true, and loved me as you do, my faithful little 
dog, I should be a rich, a happy king! ” 

General Rothenberg still stood at the half-opened door. 
“Sire, said he, “is it only Biche who has the grandes and 
petites entrées, or have I also?” 

“ Ah, it was then you who brought Biche?” said Fred- 
erick, beckoning to the general to approach. 

“Yes, sire, it was I, but I almost regret having done so, 
for I perceive that Biche is a dangerous rival, and I am 
jealous of her.” 

* The greyhound had fallen into the hands of the Austrians at the battle 
of Sohr, and had been presented by General Nadasti to his wife as a trophy. 
When this lady learned that Biche had heen a pet of the king, she at first 
refused to give it up; and only after several demands, and with much diffi- 


culty, could she be induced to return it. Rédenbeck, Diary, p. 126. 
+ Michler, “ Frederick the Greas.” p. 350. Rédenbeck, Diary, p. 187. 


316 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“You are my best gentleman-friend, and Biche is my best 
lady-friend,” said the king, laughing. “I shall never forget 
that Biche on one occasion might have discovered me to the 
Austrians, and did not betray me, as thousands of men would 
have done in her place. Had she barked at the time when 
I had concealed myself under the bridge, while the regiment 
of pandours was passing over, I should have been lost. But 
she conquered herself. From love to me she renounced her 
instincts, and was silent. She nestled close to my side, re- 
garding me with her discreet little eyes, and licking my hand 
lovingly. Ah, my friend, dogs are better and truer than 
mankind, and the so-called images of God could learn a great 
deal from them! ” | 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE FLIGHT. 


Two months had passed since Trenck’s last attempted 
escape; two months of anguish, of despair. But he was not 
depressed, not hopeless; he had one great aim before his 
eyes—to be free, to escape from this prison. The com- 
mandant had just assured him he would never leave it alive. 

This frightful picture of a life-long imprisonment did not 
terrify him, did not agitate a nerve or relax a muscle. He 
felt his blood bounding in fiery streams through his veins. 
With a merry laugh and sparkling eye he declared that no 
man could be imprisoned during his whole life who felt 
himself strong enough to achieve his freedom. 

“T have strength and endurance like Atlas. I can bear 
the world on my shoulders, and shall I never be able to burst 
these doors and gates, to surmount these miserable fortress 
walls which separate me from liberty, the world of action, 
the golden sunshine? No, no, before the close of this year 
J shall be free. Yes, free! free to fly to her and give her 
back this letter, and ask her if she did truly write it? if 
these cold words came from her heart? No, some one has 
dared to imitate her writing, and thus deprive me of the 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 317 


only ray of sunshine which enters my dark prison. I must 
be free in order to know this. I will believe in nothing 
which I do not see written in her beautiful face; only when 
her lips speak these fearful words, will I believe them. I 
must be free, and until then I must forget all other things, 
even this terrible letter. My thoughts, my eyes, my heart, 
my soul, must have but one aim—my liberty!” 

Alas! the year drew near its close, and the goal was not . 
reached; indeed, the difficulties were greatly increased. The 
commandant, Von Fouquet, had just received stern orders 
from Berlin; the watch had been doubled, and the officers 
in the citadel had been peremptorily forbidden to enter the 
cell of the prisoner, or in any way to show him kindness or 
attention. 

The officers loved the young and cheerful prisoner; by 
his fresh and hopeful spirit, his gay laugh and merry jest, he 
had broken up the everlasting monotony of their garrison- 
life; by his powerful intellect and rich fancy he had, in 
some degree, dissipated their weariness and stupidity. They 
felt pity for his youth, his beauty, his geniality, his energetic 
self-confidence; his bold courage imposed upon them, and 
they were watching curiously and anxiously to see the finale 
of this contest between the poor, powerless, imprisoned 
youth, and the haughty, stern commander, who had sworn to 
Trenck that he should not succeed in making even an at- 
tempt to escape, to which Trenck had laughingly replied: 

“T will not only make an attempt to escape, I will fly in 
defianee of all guards, and all fortress walls, and all com- 
mandants. I inhale already the breath of liberty which is 
wafted through my prison. Do you not see how the God- 
dess of Liberty, with her enchanting smile, stands at the head 
of my wretched bed, sings her sweet evening songs to the 
poor prisoner, and wakes him in the early morning with the 
sound of trumpets? Oh, sir commandant, Liberty loves me, 
and soon will she take me like a bride in her fair arms, and 
bear me off to freedom! ” 

The commandant had doubled the guard, and forbidden 
the officers, under heavy penalty, to have any intercourse 
with Trenck. Formerly, the officers who had kept watch over 
Trenck, had been allowed to enter, to remain and eat with 


318 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCT; OR, 


him; now the, door was closed against them, the major kept 
the key, and Trenck’s food was handed him through the win- 
dow.* But this window was large, and the officer on guard 
could put his head in and chat awhile with the prisoner. 
The major had the principal key, but the officer had a night- 
key, and, by this means, entered often in the evenings and 
passed a few hours with the prisoner, listening with aston- 
ishment to his plans of escape, and his dreams of a happy 
future. : 

But they did not all come to speak of indifferent things, 
and to be cheered and brightened by his gay humor. There 
were some who truly loved him, and wished to give him coun- 
sel and aid. One came because he had promised his beloved 
mistress, his bride, to liberate Trenck, cost what it would. 
This was Lieutenant Schnell, the bridegroom of Amelia’s 
maid of honor. One day, thanks to the night-key, he en- 
tered Trenck’s cell. 

“T will stand by you, and assist you to escape. More 
than that, I will fly with you. The commandant, Fouquet, 
hates me—he says I know too much for an officer; that I 
do not confine myself to my military duties, but love books, 
and art, and science. He has often railed at me, and I 
have twice demanded my dismissal, which he refused, and 
threatened me with arrest if I should again demand it. Like 
yourself, I am not free, and, like you, I wish to fly from 
bondage. And now let us consult together, and arrange our 
plan of escape.” 

“Yes,” said Trenck, with a glowing countenance, and 
embracing his new-found friend, “ we will be unconquerable. 
Like Briareus, we will have a hundred arms and a hundred 
heads. When two young and powerful men unite their wills, 
nothing can restrain them—nothing withstand them. Let 
us make our arrangements.” 

The plan of escape was marked out, and was, indeed, ripe 
for action. On the last day of the year, Lieutenant Schnell 
was to be Trenck’s night-guard, and then they would escape. 
The dark shadows of night would assist them. Horses were 
already engaged. There was gold to bribe the guard, and 
there were loaded pistols for those who could not be tempted. 


* Trenck’s Memoirs. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 319 


These had been already smuggled into Trenck’s cell, and con- 
cealed in the ashes of the fireplace. 

And now it was Christmas eve. This was a grand festal 
day even for all the officers of the citadel. With the ex- 
ception of the night-watch, they were all invited to dine with 
the commandant. <A day of joy and rejoicing to all but the 
poor prisoner, who sat solitary in his cell, and recalled, with 
a sad heart, the happy days of his childhood. “ The holy 
evening” had been to him a golden book of promise, and a 
munificent cornucopia of happiness and peace. 

The door of his cell was hastily opened, and Schnell 
rushed in. 

“Comrade, we are betrayed!” said he breathlessly. 
“Our plan of flight has been discovered. The adjutant of 
the commander has just secretly informed me that when the 
guard is changed I am to be arrested. You see, then, we are 
lost, unless we adopt some rash and energetic resolution.” 

“We will fly before the hour of your arrest,” said Trenck, 
gayly. 

“Tf you think that possible, so be it!” said Schnell. He 
drew a sword from under his mantle, and handed it to 
Trenck. “Swear to me upon this sword, that come what 
may, you will never allow me to fall alive into the hands of 
my enemies.” 

“T swear it, so truly as God will help me! And now, 
Schnell, take the same oath.” 

“T swear it! And now friend, one last grasp of the hand, 
and then forward. May God be with us! Hide your sword 
under your coat. Let us assume an indifferent and careless 
expression—come ! ” 

Arm in arm, the two young men left the prison door. 
They appeared calm and cheerful; each one kept a hand in 
his bosom, and this hand held a loaded pistol. __ 

The guard saluted the officer of the night-watch, who 
passed by him in full uniform. In passing, he said: “I am 
conducting the prisoner to the officers’ room. Remain here 
—I will return quickly.” 

Slowly, quietly, they passed down the whole Jength of 
the corridor; they reached the officer’s room, and opened the 
door. The guard walked with measured step slowly before 


320 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


the open door of Trenck’s cell, suspecting nothing. The 
door closed behind the fugitives—the first step toward lib- 
erty was taken. 

“ And now, quickly onward to the side door. When we 
have passed the sentry-box, we will be at the outer works. 
We must spring over the palisades, and woe to the obstacle 
that lies in our path!—advance! forward!” 

They reached the wall, they greeted fair Freedom with 
golden smiles, but turning a corner, they stood suddenly be- 
fore the major and his adjutant! 

A ery of horror burst from Schnell’s lips. With one bold 
leap, he sprang upon the breastworks, and jumped below. 
With a wild shout of joy Trenck followed him. His soul 
bounded with rapture and gladness. He has mounted the 
wall, and what he finds below will be liberty in death, or 
liberty in life. 

He lives! He stretches himself after his wondrous leap, 
and he is not injured—he recovers strength and presence of 
mind quickly. 

But where is his friend? where is Schnell? There— 
there; he lies upon the ground, with a dislocated ankle, im- 
possible to stand—impossible to move. 

“Remember your oath, friend—kill me! I can go no 
farther. Here is my sword—thrust it into my bosom, and 
fly for your life!” 

Trenck laughed gayly, took him in his arms as lovingly 
and tenderly as a mother. “Swing yourself on my back, 
friend, and clasp your arms about my neck, and hold fast. 
We will run a race with the reindeer.” 

“Trenck! Trenck! kill me. Leave me here, and hasten 
on. Escape is impossible with such a burden.” 

“You are as light as a feather, and I will die with you 
rather than leave you.” 

Onward! onward! the sun sets and a heavy fog rises sud- 
denly from out of the earth. 

“Trenck, Trenck, do you not hear the alarm-guns thun- 
dering from the citadel? Our pursuers are after us.” 

“T hear the cannon,” said Trenck, hastening on. “ We 
have a half hour’s start.” 

“ A half hour will not suffice. No one has ever escaped 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 321 


from Glatz who did not have two hours’ advance of pursuit. 
Leave me, Trenck, and save yourself.” 

“T will not leave you. I would rather die with you. Let 
us rest a moment, and gather breath.” 

Gently, carefully, he laid his friend upon the ground. 
Schnell suppressed his cries of pain, and Trenck restrained 
his panting breath—they rested and listened. The white, 
soft mist settled more thickly around them. The citadel and 
the town was entirely hidden from view. 

“God is with us,” said Trenck. “He covers us with an 
impenetrable veil, and conceals us from our enemies.” 

“God is against us—our flight was too soon discovered. 
Already the whole border is alarmed. Listen to the signals 
in every village. The three shots from the citadel have an- 
nounced that a prisoner has escaped. The commanding 
officers are now flying from point to point, to see if the peas- 
ants are doing duty, and if every post is strictly guarded. 
The cordon is alarmed; the whole Bohemian boundary has 
been signalled. It is too late—we cannot reach the border.” 

“We will not go then, friend, in the direction our ene- 
mies expect us,” said Trenck, merrily. “They saw us run- 
ning toward the Bohemian boundary, and they will follow in 
that direction through night and fog. We will fly where 
they are not seeking us—we will cross the Reise. Do you 
see there a line of silver shimmering through the fog, and 
advancing to meet us? Spring upon my back, Schnell. We 
must cross the Reise! ” 

“TI cannot, Trenck, I suffer agony with my foot. It is 
impossible for me to swim.” 

“T can swim for both.” 

He knelt down, took his friend upon his back, and ran 
with him to the river. And now they stood upon the shore. 
Solemnly, drearily, the waves dashed over their feet, sweep- 
ing onward large blocks of ice which obstructed the current. 

“Ts the river deep, comrade? ” 

“In the middle of the stream, deep enough to cover a 
giant like yourself.” 

“ Onward, then! When I can no longer walk, I can swim. 
Hold fast, Schnell! ” 

Onward, in the dark, ice-cold water, bravely onward, with 


322 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


his friend upon his back! Higher and higher rose the 
waves! Now they reached his shoulder! 

“ Hold fast to my hair, Schnell, we must swim! ” 

With herculean strength he swam through the dark, 
wild waters, and dashed the ice-blocks which rushed against 
him from his path. 

Now they have reached the other shore. Not yet safe— 
but safe from immediate danger. The blessed night con- 
ceals their course, and their pursuers seek them on the other 
shore. 

Suddenly the fog is dispersed; a rough bleak wind freezes 
the moisture in the atmosphere, and the moon rose in cloud- 
less majesty in the heavens. It was a cold, clear December 
night, and the wet clothes of the fugitives were frozen stiff, 
like a harness, upon them. Trenck felt neither cold nor 
stiff; he carried his friend upon his shoulders, and that kept 
him warm; he walked so rapidly, his limbs could not stiffen. 

Onward, ever onward to the mountains! They reached 
the first hill, under whose protecting shadows they sank 
down to rest, and take counsel together. 

“Trenck, I suffer great agony; I implore you to leave 
me here and save yourself. In a few hours you can pass the 
border. Leave me, then, and save yourself!” 

“T will never desert a friend in necessity. Come, I am 
refreshed.” 

He took up his comrade and pressed on. The moon had 
concealed herself behind the clouds; the cold, cutting winds 
howled through the mountains. Stooping, Trenck waded on 
through the snow. He was scarcely able now to hold himself 
erect. Hope inspired him with strength and courage—they 
had wandered far, they must soon reach the border. 

Day broke! the pale rays of the December sun melted the 
mountain vapors into morning. The two comrades were 
encamped upon the snow, exhausted with their long march, 
hopefully peering here and there after the Bohemian 
boundary. 

“ Great God! what is that? Are not those the towers of 
Glatz? and that dark spectre which raises itself so threaten- 
ingly against the horizon, is not that the citadel?” 

And so it was. The poor fugitives have wandered roum 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 323 


and round the whole night through, and they are now, alas! 
exactly where they started. 

“We are lost,” murmured Schnell; “there is no hope!” 

“No, we are not lost!” shouted Trenck; “we have 
young, healthy limbs, and weapons. They shall never take 
us alive.” 

“But we cannot escape them. Our appearance will in- 
stantly betray us; I am in full uniform, and you in your red 
coat of the body-guard, both of us without hats. Any man 
would know we were deserters.” 

“Woe to him who calls us so! we will slay him, and walk 
over his dead body. And now for some desperate resolve. 
We cannot go backward, we must advance, and pass right 
through the midst of our enemies in order to reach the bor- 
der. You know the way, and the whole region round about. 
Come, Schnell, let us hold a council of war.” 

“ We must pass through that village in front of us. How 
shall we attempt to do so unchallenged?” 

Half an hour later a singular couple drew near to the last 
house of the village. One was a severely wounded, bleeding 
officer of the king’s body-guard; his face was covered with 
blood, a bloody handkerchief was bound about his brow, and 
his hands tied behind his back. Following him, limped an 
officer in full parade dress, but bareheaded. With rude, 
coarse words he drove the poor prisoner before him, and cried 
for help. Immediately two peasants rushed from the house. 

“ Run to the village,” said the officer, “and tell the judge 
to have a carriage got ready immediately, that I may take 
this deserter to the fortress. I succeeded in capturing him, 
but he shot my horse, and I fear I broke a bone in falling; 
you see, though, how I have cut him to pieces. I think he is 
mortally wounded. Bring a carriage instantly, that I may 
take him, while yet alive, to the citadel.” 

One of the men started at once, the other nodded to them 
to enter his hut. 

Stumbling and stammering out words of pain, the wound- 
ed man followed him; cursing and railing, the officer limped 
behind him. On entering the room, the wounded man sank 
upon the floor, groaning aloud. A young girl advanced has- 


tily, and mcr his wounded head in her arms; while an old 
1 


324 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


woman, who stood upon the hearth, brought a vessel of warm 
milk to comfort him. 

The old peasant stood at the window, and looked, with a 
peculiar smile, at the officer, who seated himself upon a 
bench near the fire, and drank the milk greedily which the 
old woman handed him. Suddenly the old man advanced in 
front of the officer and laid his hand on his shoulder. 

“Your disguise is net necessary, Lieutenant Schnell, I 
know you; my son served in your company. There was an 
officer from the citadel here last night, and informed us of 
the two deserters. You are one, Lieutenant Schnell, and 
that is the other. That is Baron Trenck.” 

And now, the wounded man, as if cured by magic, sprang 
to his feet. The sound of his name had given him health 
and strength, and healed the wound in his forehead. He 
threw the handkerchief off, and rushed out, while Schnell 
with prayers and threats held back the old man, and entreat- 
ed him to show them the nearest way to the border. 

Trenck hastened to the stable—two horses were in the 
stalls. The young girl, who had held his head so tenderly, 
came up behind him. 

“What are you doing, sir?” she said anxiously, as 
Trenck released the horses. “ You will not surely take my 
father’s horses ?—if you do, I will ery aloud for help.” 

“Tf you dare to ery aloud, I will murder you,” said 
Trenck, with flaming eyes, “and then I will kill myself! I 
have sworn that I wili not be taken alive into the fortress. 
Have pity, beautiful child—your eyes are soft and kindly, 
and betray a tender heart. Help me—think how beauti- 
ful, how glorious is the world and life and liberty to the 
young! My enemies will deprive me of all this, and 
chain me in a cell, like a wild beast. Oh, help me to 
escape!” 

“ How can I help you?” said Mariandel, greatly touched. 

“Give me saddles and bridles for these horses, in order 
that I may flee. I swear to you, by God and by my beloved, 
that they shall be returned to you!” 

“You have then a sweetheart, sir?” 

“TY have—and she weeps day and night for me.” 

“T will give you the saddles in remembrance of my own 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 395 


beloved, who is far away from me. Come, saddle your horse 
quickly—I will saddle the other.” 

“Now, farewell, Mariandel—one kiss at parting—fare- 
well, compassionate child! Schnell, Schnell, quick, quick 
to horse, to horse! ” 

Schnell rushed out of the hut, the peasant after him. 
He saw with horror that his horses were saddled; that 
Schnell, in spite of his foot, had mounted one, and Trenck 
was seated upon the other. 

“My God! will you steal my horses? Help! help!” 

Mariandel laid her hand upon her father’s lips, and sup- 
pressed his cries for help. “ Father, he has a bride, and she 
weeps for him!—think upon Joseph, and let them go.” 

The fugitives dashed away. Their long hair fluttered 
in the wind, their cheeks glowed with excitement and ex- 
pectation. Already the village lay far behind them. 
Onward, over the plains, over the meadows, over the stubble- 
fields! 

“ Schnell, Schnell, I see houses—I see towns. Schnell, 
there lies a city!” 

“That is Wunschelburg, and we must ride directly 
through it, for this is the nearest way to Bohemia.” 

“There is a garrison there, but we must ride through 
them. Aha! this is royal sport! We will dash right through 
the circle of our enemies. They will be so amazed at our 
insolence, that they will allow us to escape. Hei! here are 
the gates—the bells are ringing for church. Onward, on- 
ward, my gallant steed, you must fly as if you had wings!” 

Huzza! how the flint strikes fire! how the horses’ hoofs 
resound on the pavement! how the gayly-dressed church- 
goers, who were advancing so worthily up the street, fly 
screaming to every side! how the lazy hussars thinking no 
harm, stand at the house doors, and fix their eyes with horror 
upon these two bold riders, who dash past them like a storm- 
wind! 

And now they have reached the outer gate—the city lies 
behind them. Forward, forward, in mad haste! The horses 
bow, their knees give way, but the bold riders rein them up 
with powerful arms, and they spring onward. 

Onward, still onward! “ But what is that? who is this 


826 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


advancing directly in front of us? Schnell, do you not know 
him? That is Captain Zerbtz! ” 

Yes, that is Captain Zerbtz, who has been sent with his 
hussars to arrest the fugitives; but he is alone, and his men 
are not in sight. He rode on just in front of them. When 
near enough to be heard, he said, “ Brothers, hasten! Go to 
the left, pass that solitary house. That is the boundary- 
line.* My hussars have gone to the right.” 

He turned his horse quickly, and dashed away. The fu- 
gitives flew to the left, passed the lonely house; passed the 
white stone which marked the border, and now just a little 
farther on. 

“Oh, comrade, let our horses breathe! Let us rest and 
thank God, for we are saved—we have passed the border! ” 

“We are free, free!” cried Trenck, with so loud a shout 
of joy that the mountains echoed with the happy sound, and 
reéchoed back, “Free, free! ” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


I WILL. 


SWIFTLY, noiselessly, and unheeded the days of prosperity 
and peace passed away. King Frederick has been happy; 
he does not even remember that more than two years of calm 
content and enjoyment have been granted him—two years. 
in which he dared lay aside his sword, and rest quietly upon 
his laurels. This happy season had been rich in blessings; 
bringing its laughing tribute of perfumed roses and bloom- 
ing myrtles. Two years of such happiness seems almost 
miraculous in the life of a king. 

Our happy days are ever uneventful. True love is si- 
lent and retiring; it does not speak its rapture to the pro- 
fane world, but hides itself in the shadows of holy solitude 
and starry night. Let us not, then, lift the veil with which 


* Trenck’s Memoirs. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 397 


King Frederick had concealed his love. These two years of 
bloom and fragrance shall pass by unquestioned. 

When the sun is most lustrous, we turn away our eyes, 
lest they be blinded by his rays; but when clouds and dark- 
ness are around about us, we look up curiously and question- 
ingly. King Frederick’s sun is no longer clear and dazzling, 
dark clouds are passing over it; a shadow from these clouds 
has fallen upon the young and handsome face of the king, 
quenched the flashing glance of his eye, and checked the 
rapid beating of his heart. 

What was it which made King Frederick so restless and 
unhappy? He did not know himself, or, rather, he would not 
know. An Alp seemed resting upon his heart, repressing 
every joyful emotion, and making exertion impossible. He 
sought distraction in work, and in the early morning he 
called his ministers to council, but his thoughts were far 
away; he listened without hearing, and the most important 
statements seemed to him trivial. He mistrusted himself, 
and dismissed his ministers. It was Frederick’s custom to 
read every letter and petition himself, and write his answer 
upon the margin. This being done, he turned to his ordinary 
studies and occupations, and commenced writing in his 
‘“‘ Histoire de Mon Temps.” Soon, however, he found him- 
self gazing upon the paper, lost in wandering thoughts and 
wild, fantastic dreams. He threw his pen aside, and tried 
to lose himself in the beautiful creations of his favorite 
poet, all things in nature and fiction seemed alike vain. 

Frederick threw his book aside in despair. “ What is the 
matter with me?” he exclaimed angrily. “Iam not myself; 
some wicked fairy has cast a spell about me, and bound my 
soul in magic fetters. I cannot work, I cannot think; con- 
tent and quiet peace are banished from my breast! What 
does this signify? and why—” He did not complete his 
sentence, but gazed with breathless attention to the door. 
He had heard one tone of a voice without which made his 
heart tremble and his eyes glow with their wonted fire. 

“ Announce to his majesty that I am here, and plead im- 
portunately for an audience,” said a soft, sweet voice. 

“The king has commanded that no one shall be ad- 
mitted.” . 


828 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ Announce me, nevertheless,” said the petitioner im- 
periously. 

“ That is impossible! ” ! 

Frederick had heard enough. He stepped to the door 
and threw it open. “Signora, I am ready to receive you; 
have the goodness to enter.” He stepped abruptly forward, 
and, giving his hand to Barbarina, led her into his cabinet. 

Barbarina greeted him with a sweet smile, and gave a 
glance of triumph to the guard, who had dared to refuse her 
entrance. 

The king conducted her silently to his boudoir, and 
nodded to her to seat herself upon the divan. But Barba- 
rina remained standing, and fixed her great burning eyes 
upon his face. 

“T see a cloud upon your brow, sire,” said she, in a fond 
and flattering tone. “ What poor insect has dared to vex 
my royal lion? Was it an insect? Was it—” 

“No, no,” said Frederick, interrupting her, “an angel or 
a devil has tortured me, and banished joy and peace from my 
heart. Now tell me, Barbarina, what are you? Are you a 
demon, come to martyr me, or an angel of light, who will 
transform my wild dreams of love and bliss into reality? 
There are hours of rapture in which I believe the latter, in 
which your glance of light and glory wafts my soul on golden 
wings into the heaven of heavens, and I say to myself, ‘I 
am not only a king, but a god, for I have an angel by my side 
to minister to me.’ But then, alas! come weary times in 
which you seem to me an evil demon, and I see in your flash- 
ing eyes that eternal hatred which you swore to cherish in 
the first hour of our meeting.” 

“ Alas! does your majesty still remember that?” said 
Barbarina, in a tone of tender reproof. 

“You have taken care that I shall not forget it. You 
once told me that from hatred to love was but a small step. 
If you have truly advanced so far, how can I be assured but 
you will one day step backward?” 

“How can you be assured?” said she, pointing a rosy 
finger with indescribable grace at the king. “ Ah, sire! 
your divine beauty, your eyes, which have borrowed light- 
ning from Jove and glory from the sun—your brow, where 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 399 


majesty and wisdom sit enthroned, and that youthful and 
enchanting smile which illuminates the whole—all these 
make assurance doubly sure! I will not allude to your 
throne, and its pomp and power! What is it to me that you 
are a king? For me you are a man, a hero, a god. Had I 
met you as a shepherd in the fields, I should have said, 
‘There is a god in disguise!’ The fable is verified, and 
‘Apollo is before me!’ Apollo, I adore, I worship you! 
let one ray from your heavenly eyes fall upon my face!” 
She knelt before him, folding her hands, extended them 
pleadingly toward the king, and looked upon him with a rav- 
ishing smile. 

The king raised her, and pressed her in his arms, then 
took her small head in his hands, and turning it backward, 
gazed searchingly in her face. 

“Oh! Barbarina,” said he, sadly, “to-day you are an 
angel, why were you a demon yesterday? Why did you 
martyr and torture me with your childish moods and pas- 
sionate temper? Why is your heart, which can be so soft 
and warm, sometimes cold as an iceberg and wholly pitiless ? 
Child! child! do you not know I have been wounded by many 
griefs, and that every rough word and every angry glance is 
like a poisoned dagger to my soul? I had looked forward 
with such delight to our meeting yesterday at Rothenberg’s! 
I expected so much happiness, and I had earned it by a dili- 
gent and weary day’s work. Alas! you spoiled all by your 
frowning brow and sullen silence. It was your fault that 
I returned home sad and heartless. I could not sleep, but 
passed the night in trying to find out the cause of your 
melancholy. This morning I could not work, and have 
robbed my kingdom and my people of the hours which prop- 
erly belong to them; weak and powerless, I have been swayed 
wholly by gloom and discontent. What was it, Barbarina, 
which veiled your clear brow with frowns, and made your 
sweet voice so harsh and stern?” 

“ What was it?” said Barbarina, sadly; and resting on 
the arm of the king, she leaned her head back and looked up 
at him with half-closed eyes. “It was ambition which tor- 
tured me. But I did wrong to conceal any thing from you. 
I should, without sullen or angry looks, have made known 


830 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


the cause of my despair. I should have felt that I had 
only to breathe my request, and that the noble and magnani- 
mous heart of my king would understand me. I should have 
known that the man who had won laurels in the broad fields 
of science and on the bloody battle-field, would appreciate 
this thirst for renown; this glowing, burning hate toward 
those who cross our paths and wish to share our fame!” 

“ Jealous? you are jealous, then, of some other artiste,” 
said the king, releasing Barbarina from his arms. 

“ Yes, sire, I am jealous!—jealous of your smiles, of your 
applause; of the public voice, of the bravos, which like a 
golden shower have fallen upon me alone, and which I must 
now divide with another! ” 

“ Of whom, then, are you jealous?” said the king. 

She threw her head back proudly, a crimson blush blazed 
upon her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled angrily. 

“Why has this Marianna Cochois been engaged? Why 
has Baron von Swartz put this contempt upon me?” said she 
fiercely. “To engage another artiste is to say to the world, 
that Barbarina no longer pleases, that she no longer has the 
power to enrapture the public, that her triumphs are over, 
and her day is past! Oh! this thought has made me wild! 
Is not Barbarina the first dancer of the world? Can it be 
that another prima donna, and not the Barbarina, is engaged 
for the principal 76le in a new and splendid ballet? Does 
Barbarina live, and has she not murdered the one who dared 
to do this, to bring this humiliation upon her?” 

Tears gushed from her eyes, and sobbing loudly, she hid 
her face in her hands. The king gazed sadly upon her, and a 
weary smile played upon his lip. 

“ You are all alike—all,” said he, bitterly, “and the great 
artiste is even as narrow-minded and pitiful as the unknown 
and humble; you are all weak, vain, envious, and swayed by 
small passions; and to think that you, Barbarina, are not an 
exception; that the Barbarina weeps because Marianna Co- 
chois is to play the principal réle in the new ballet, ‘ Toste 
Galanti.’” 

“ She shall not, she dare not,” cried Barbarina; “I will 
not suffer this humiliation; I will not be disgraced, dishon- 
ored in Berlin; I will not sit unnoticed in a loge, and listen 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 331 


to the bravos and plaudits awarded to another artiste which 
belong to me alone! Oh, sire, do not allow this shame to be 
put upon me! Command that this part, which is mine, which 
belongs to me by right of the world-wide fame which I have 
achieved, be given to me! I implore your majesty to take 
this réle from the Cochois, and restore it to me.” 

“ That is impossible, Barbarina. The Cochois, like every 
other artiste, must have her début. Baron Swartz has given 
her the principal part in‘ Toste Galanti,’ and I cannot blame 
him.” 

“Oh! your majesty, I beseech you to listen. Is it not 
true—will you not bearwitness to the fact that Barbarina has 
never put your liberality and magnanimity to the test; that 
she has never shown herself to be egotistical or mercenary? 
I ask nothing from my king but his heart, the happiness 
to sit at his feet, and in the sunshine of his eyes to bathe my 
being in light and gladness. Sire, you have often complained 
that I desired and would accept nothing from you; that: 
diamonds and pearls had no attraction for me. You know 
that not the slightest shadow of selfishness has fallen upon 
my love! Now, then, I have a request to-day: I ask some- 
thing from my king which is more precious in my eyes than 
all the diamonds of the world. Give me this réle; that is, 
allow me to remain in the undisturbed possession of my 
fame.” She bowed her knee once more before the king, but 
this time he did not raise her in his arms. 

“ Barbarina,” said he, sadly and thoughtfully, “ put away 
from you this unworthy and pitiful envy. Cast it off as you 
do the tinsel robes and rouge of the stage with which you 
conceal your beauty. Be yourself again. The noble, proud, 
and great-hearted woman who shines without the aid of 
garish ornament, who is ever the queen of grace and 
beauty, and needs not the borrowed and false purple and 
ermine of the stage. Grant graciously to the Cochois this 
small glory, you who are everywhere and always a queen in 
your own right!” 

Barbarina sprang from her knees with flashing eyes. 
“ Sire,” said she, “ you refuse my request—my first request— 
you will not order that this part shall be given to me?” 

“T cannot; it would be unjust.” 


332 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“And so I must suffer this deadly shame; must see an- 
other play the part which belongs to me; another made glad 
by the proud triumphs which are mine and should remain 
mine. I will not suffer this! I swear it! So true as my 
name is Barbarina I will have no rival near me! I will not 
be condemned to this daily renewed struggle after the first 
rank as an artiste. I will not bear the possibility of a com- 
parison between myself and any other woman. I am and I 
will remain the first; yes, I will!” 

She raised herself up defiantly, and her burning glance 
fell upon the face of the king, but he met it firmly, and if 
the bearing of Barbarina was proud and commanding, that 
of King Frederick was more imposing. 

“How!” said he, in a tone so harsh and threatening that 
Barbarina, in spite of her scorn and passion, felt her heart 
tremble with fear. “ How! Is there another in Prussia who 
dares say, ‘I will?’ Is it possible that a voice is raised in 
contradiction to the expressed will of the king?” 

Barbarina turned pale and trembled. The countenance 
of Frederick expressed what she had never seen before. It 
was harsh and cold, and a cutting irony spoke in his glance 
and a contemptuous smile played upon his lip. 

“ Mercy, merey!” cried she, pleadingly; “have pity with 
my passion. Forget this inconsiderate word which scorn 
and despair drew from me. Oh! sire, do not look upon me 
so coldly, unless you wish that I should sink down and die 
at your feet; crush me not in your anger, but pardon and 

forget.” 

| With her lovely face bathed in tears and her arms 
stretched out imploringly, she drew near the king, but he 
stood up erect and stepped backward. : 

“Signora Barbarina, I have nothing to forgive, but I 
cannot grant your request. The Cochois keeps her réle, and 
if you have any complaint to make, apply to your chief, 
Baron Swartz; and now, signora, farewell; the audience is 
ended.” 

He bowed his head lightly and turned away; but Barba- 
rina uttered one wild ery, sprang after him, and with mad 
frenzy she clung to his arm. 

“Sire, sire! do not go,” she said, breathlessly; “do not 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 333 


forsake me in your rage. My God, do you not see that I 
suffer; that I shall be a maniac if you desert me!” and, 
gliding to his feet, she clasped his knees with her beautiful 
arms, and looked up at him imploringly. “Oh, my king and 
my lord, let me be as a slave at your feet; do not spurn me 
from you! ”: 

King Frederick did not reply; he leaned forward and 
looked down upon the lovely and enchanting woman lying at 
his feet, and never, perhaps, had her charms appeared so in- 
' toxicating as at this moment, but his face was sad, and his 
eyes, usually so clear and bright, were veiled in tears. There 
was a pause. Barbarina still clung to his knees, and looked 
up beseechingly, and the king regarded her with an expres- 
sion of unspeakable melancholy; his great soul seemed to 
speak in the glance which fixed upon her. It was eloquent 
with love, rapture, and grief. Now their eyes met and 
seemed immovably fixed. In the midst of the profound si- 
lence nothing was heard but Barbarina’s sighs. She knew 
full well the significance of this moment. She felt that fate, 
with its menacing and unholy shadow, was hovering over her. 
Suddenly the king roused himself, and the voice which broke 
the solemn silence sounded strange and harsh to Barbarina. 

“Farewell, Signora Barbarina,” said the king. 

Barbarina’s arms sank down powerless, and a sob burst 
from her lips. The king did not regard it; he did not look 
back. With a firm hand he opened the door which led into 
his chamber; entered and closed it. He sank upon a chair, 
and gave one long and weary sigh. A profound despair was 
written on his countenance, and had Barbarina seen him, 
she would have appreciated the anguish of his heart. 

She lay bathed in tears before his door, and cried aloud: 
“He has forsaken me! Oh, my God, he has forsaken me!” 
This fearful and terrible thought maddened her; she sprang 
up and shook the door fiercely, and with a loud and piteous 
voice she prayed for entrance. She knew not herself what 
words of love, of anguish, of despair, and insulted pride burst 
from her pallid lips. One moment she threatened fiercely, 
then pleaded touchingly for pardon; sometimes her voice 
seemed full of tears—then cold and commanding. The king 
stood with folded arms, leaning against the other side of the 


334 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


door. He heard these paroxysms of grief and rage, and 
every word fell upon his heart as the song of the siren upon 
the ear of Ulysses. But Frederick was mighty and powerful; 
he needed no ropes or wax to hold him back. He had the 
strength to control his will, and the voice of wisdom, the 
warning voice of duty, spoke louder than the siren’s song. 

“No,” said he, “I will not, I dare not allow myself to 
be again seduced. All this must come to an end! I have 
long known this, but I had no strength to resist temptation. 
Have I not solemnly sworn to have but one aim in life—to 
place the good of my people far above my own personal hap- 
piness? If the man and the king strive within me for mastery, 
the king must triumph above all other things. I must con- 
sider the holy duties which my crown lays upon me; my 
time, my thoughts, my strength, belong to my people, my 
land. Ihave already robbed them, for I have withdrawn my- 
self. I have suffered an enchantress to step between me 
and my duty—another will than mine finds utterance, in- 
fluences, and indeed controls my thoughts and actions. Alas! 
a king should be old and be born with the heart of a gray- 
beard—he dare never have a heart of youth and fire if he 
would serve his people faithfully and honestly! With a 
heart of flesh I might have been a happier, a more amiable 
man, but a weak, unworthy king. I should have been intoxi- 
cated by a woman’s love, and her light wish would have been 
more powerful than my will. Never, never shall that be! 
I will have the courage to trample my own heart under foot, 
and the sorrows of the man shall be soothed and healed by 
the pomp and glory of the king.” 

In the next room Barbarina leaned over against the door, 
exhausted by her prayers and tears. “ Listen to me, my 
king,” said she, softly. “In one hour you have broken my 
will and humbled my pride forever! From this time onward 
Barbarina has no will but yours. Command me, then, 
wholly. Say to me that I am never to dance again, and I 
swear to you that my foot shall never more step upon the 
stage; command that all my réles shall be given to the 
Cochois, I will myself hand them to her and pray her to 
accept them. You see, my king, that I am no longer proud 
—no longer ambitious. Have mercy upon me then, sire; 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 335 


open this fearful door; let me look upon your face; let me 
lie at your feet. Oh, my king, be merciful, be gracious; 
cast me not away from you!” 

The king leaned, agitated and trembling, against the 
door. Once he raised his arm and laid his hand upon the 
bolt. Barbarina uttered a joyful cry, for she had heard this 
movement. But the king withdrew his hand again. All was 
still; from time to time the king heard a low sigh, a sup- 
pressed sob, then silence followed. 

Barbarina pleaded no more. She knew and felt it was in 
vain. Scorn and wounded pride dried the tears which love 
and despair had caused to flow. She wept no more—her 
eyes were flaming—she cast wild, angry glances toward the 
door before which she had lain so long in humble entreaty. 
Threateningly she raised her arms toward heaven, and her 
lips murmured unintelligible words of cursing or oaths of 
vengeance. 

“ Farewell, King Frederick,” she said, at last, in mellow, 
joyous tones—“ farewell! Barbarina leaves you.” 

She felt that, in uttering these words, the tears had again 
rushed to her eyes. She shook her head wildly, and closed 
her eyelids, and pressed her hands firmly upon them, thus 
forcing back the bitter tears to their source. Then with one 
wild spring, like an enraged lioness, she sprang to the other 
door, opened it and rushed out. 

Frederick waited some time, then entered the room, 
which seemed to him to resound with the sighs and prayers 
of Barbarina. It brought back the memory of joys that were 
past, and it appeared to him even as the death-chamber of his 
hopes and happiness. He stepped hastily through the room 
and bolted the door through which Barbarina had gone out. 
He wished to be alone. No one should share his solitude—no 
one should breathe this air, still perfumed by the sighs of 
Barbarina. King Frederick looked*slowly and sadly around 
him, then hastened to the door before which Barbarina had 
knelt. An embroidered handkerchief lay upon the floor. 
The king raised it; it was wet with tears, and warm and fra- 
grant from contact with her soft, fine hand. He pressed it 
to his lips and to his burning eyes; then murmured, lightly, 
“Farewell! a last, long farewell to happiness! ” 


336 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


CHAPTER XV. 
THE LAST STRUGGLE FOR POWER. 


RESTLESS and anxious the two cavaliers of the king paced 
the anteroom, turning their eyes constantly toward the door 
which led into the king’s study, and which had not been 
opened since yesterday morning. For twenty-four hours 
the king had not left his room. In vain had General Rothen- 
berg and Duke Algarotti prayed for admittance. 

The king had not even replied to them; he had, however, 
ealled Fredersdorf, and commanded him sternly to admit no 
one, and not to return himself unless summoned. The king 
would take no refreshment, would undress himself, required 
no assistance, and must not be disturbed in the important 
work which now occupied him. 

This strict seclusion and unaccustomed silence made the 
king’s friends and servants very anxious. With oppressed 
hearts they stood before the door and listened to every sound 
from the room. During many hours they heard the regular 
step of the king as he walked backward and forward; some- 
times he uttered a hasty word, then sighed wearily, and noth- 
ing more. 

Night came upon them. Pale with alarm, Rothenberg 
asked Algarotti if it was not their duty to force the door and 
ascertain the condition of his majesty. 

“Beware how you take that rash step!” said Freders- 
dorf, shaking his head. “The king’s commands were im- 
perative; he will be alone and undisturbed.” 

“Have you no suspicion of the cause of his majesty’s dis- 
tress?” asked Algarotti. 

“For some days past the king has been grave and out of 
humor,” replied Fredersdorf. “I am inclined to the opinion 
that his majesty has been angered and wounded by some 
dear friend.” 

General Rothenberg bent over and whispered to Algarot- 
ti: “ Barbarina has wounded him; for some time past she 
has been sullen and imperious. These haughty and power- 
ful natures have been carrying on an invisible war with each 
other’; they both contend for sovereignty.” © 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 337 


“Tf this is so, I predict confidently that the beautiful 
Barbarina will be conquered,” said Algarotti. “ Mankind 
will always be conquered by Frederick the king, and must 
submit to him. Soe soon as Frederick the Great recognizes 
the fact that the man in him is subjected by the enchanting 
Barbarina, like Alexander the Great, he will cut the gordian 
knot, and release himself from even the soft bondage of 
love.” 

“T fear that he is strongly bound, and that the gordian 
knot of love can withstand even the king’s sword. Fred- 
erick, ordinarily so unapproachable, so inexorable in his 
authority and self-control, endures with a rare patience the 
proud, commanding bearing of Barbarina. Even yesterday 
evening when the king did me the honor to sup with me in 
the society of the Barbarina, in spite of her peevishness and 
ever-changing mood, he was the most gallant and attentive 
of cavaliers.” 

“ And you think the king has not seen the signora since 
that time?” 

“T do not know; let us ask the guard.” 

The gentlemen ascertained from the guard that Barba- 
rina had left the king’s room in the morning, deadly pale, 
and with her eyes inflamed by weeping. 

“You see that I was right,” said Algarotti; “this love- 
affair has reached a crisis.” 

“In which I fear the king will come to grief,” said 
Rothenberg. “ Believe me, his majesty loves Barbarina 
most tenderly.” 

“Not the king! the man loves Barbarina. But listen! 
did you not hear a noise?” 

“Yes, the low tone of a flute,” said Fredersdorf. “ Let 
us approach the door.” 

Lightly and cautiously they stepped to the door, behind 
which the king had carried on this fierce battle with himself, 
a battle in which he had shed his heart’s best blood. Again 
they heard the sound of the flute: it trembled on the air like 
the last sigh of love and happiness; sometimes it seemed 
like the stormy utterance of a strong soul in extremest an- 
guish, then melted softly away in sighs and tears. Never in 
the king’s gayest and brightest days had he played with such 


338 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


masterly skill as now in this hour of anguish. The pain, the 
love, the doubt, the longing which swelled his heart, found 
utterance in this mournful adagio. Greatly moved, the 
three friends listened breathlessly to this wondrous develop- 
ment of genius. The king completed the music with a note 
of profound suffering. 

Algarotti bowed to Rothenberg. “Friend,” said he, 
“that was the last song of the dying swan.” 

“God grant that it was the last song of love, not the 
death-song of the king’s heart! When a man tears love 
forcibly from his heart, I am sure he tears away also a piece 
of the heart in which it was rooted.” 

“Can we not think of something to console him? Let 
us go in the morning to Barbarina; perhaps we may learn 
from her what has happened.” 

“ Think you we can do nothing more to-day to withdraw 
the king from his painful solitude?” 

“T think the king is a warrior and a hero, and will be 
able to conquer himself.” 

While the king, in solitude, strengthened only by his 
genius, struggled with his love, Barbarina, with all the pas- 
sion of her stormy nature, endured inexpressible torture. 
She was not alone—her sister was with her, mingled her 
tears with hers, and whispered sweet words of hope. 

“The king will return to you; your beauty holds him 
captive with invisible but magic bonds. Your grace and 
fascinations will live in his memory, will smile upon him,. 
and lure him back humble and conquered to your feet.” 

Barbarina shook her head sadly. “I have lost him. 
The eagle has burst the weak bonds with which I had bound 
his wings; now he is free, he will again unfold them, and rise 
up conquering and to conquer in the blue vaults of heaven. 
In the rapturous enjoyment of liberty he will forget how 
happy he was in captivity. No, no; I have lost him for- 
ever! ” 

She clasped her hands over her face, and wept bitterly. 
Then, as if roused to extremity by some agonizing thought, 
she sprang from her seat; her eyes were flashing, her cheeks. . 
crimson. 

“ Oh, to think that he abandoned me; that I was true te 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 339 


him; that a man lives who deserted Barbarina! That is a 
shame, a humiliation, of which I will die—yes, surely die!” 

“ But this man was, at least, a king,” said her sister, in 
hesitating tones. 

Barbarina shook her head fiercely, and her rich black hair 
fell about her face in wild disorder. 

“ What is it to me that he is a king? His sceptre is not 
so powerful as that of Barbarina. My realm extends over 
the universe, wherever men have eyes to see and hearts to 
feel emotion. That this man is a king does not lessen my 
shame, or make my degradation less bitter. Barbarina is 
deserted, forsaken, spurned, and yet lives. She is not 
crushed and ground to death by this dishonor. But, as I 
live, I will take vengeance, vengeance for this monstrous 
wrong—this murder of my heart!” . 

So, in the midst of wild prayers, and tears, and dite of 
vengeance, the day declined; long after, Barbarina yielded 
to the tender entreaties of Marietta, and stretched herself 
upon her couch. She buried her head in the pillows, and 
during the weary hours of the night she wept bitterly. 

With pale cheeks and weary eyes she rose on the follow- 
ing morning. She was still profoundly sad, but no longer 
hopeless. Her vanity, her rare beauty, in whose magic 
power she still believed, whispered golden words of comfort, 
of encouragement; she was now convinced that the king 
could not give her up. “He spurned me yesterday, to-day 
he will implore me to forgive him.” She was not surprised 
when her servant announced Duke Algarotti and General 
Rothenberg. 

“Look you,” said she, turning to her sister, “ you see my 
heart judged rightly. The king sends his two most confiden- 
tial friends to conduct me to him. Oh, my God, grant that 
this poor heart, which has borne such agony, may not now 
break from excess of happiness! I shall see him again, and 
his beautiful, loving eyes will melt out of my heart even the 
remembrance of the terrible glance with which he looked 
upon me yesterday. Farewell, sister; farewell—I go to the 

h ” 


“But not so; not in this négligée ; not with this hair in 
wild disorder,” said Marietta, holding her back. . 
22 | 


840 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“Yes, even as I am,” said Barbarina. “For his sake I 
have torn my hair; for his sake my eyes are red; my sad, 
pale face speaks eloquently of my despair, and will awaken 
his repentance.” 

Proudly, triumphantly she entered the saloon, and re- 
turned the profound salutation of the two gentlemen with 
a slight bow. 

“You bring me a message from his majesty?” said she, 
hastily. 

“ The king commissioned us to inquire after your health, 
signora,” said Algarotti. 

Barbarina smiled significantly. “He sent you to watch 
me closely,” thought she; “he would ascertain if I am ready 
to pardon, ready to return to him. I will meet them frankly, 
honestly, and make their duty light.—Say to his majesty 
that I have passed the night in sighs and tears, that my 
heart is full of repentance. I grieve for my conduct.” 

The gentlemen exchanged a meaning glance; they al- 
ready knew what they came to learn. Barbarina had had 
a contest with the king, and he had separated from her in 
scorn. Therefore was the proud Barbarina so humble, so 
repentant. 

Barbarina looked at them expectantly; she was convinced 
they would now ask, in the name of the king, to be allowed to 
conduct her to the castle. But they said nothing 'to that 
effect. 

“ Repentance must be a very poisonous worm,” said Gen- 

eral Rothenberg, looking steadily upon the face of Barba- 
rina; “it has changed the blooming rose of yesterday into a 
fair, white blossom.” 
_ That is perhaps fortunate,” said Algarotti. “It is well 
known that the white rose has fewer thorns than the red, 
and from this time onward, signora, there will be less danger 
of mortal wounds when approaching you.” 

Barbarina trembled, and her eyes flashed angrily. “Do 
you mean to intimate that my strength and power are 
broken, and that I can never recover my realm? Do you 
mean that the Barbarina, whom the king so shamefully de- 
serted, so cruelly humiliated, is a frail butterfly? That the 
purple hue of beauty has been brushed from my wings? that 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 341 


I can no longer charm and ravish the beholder because a 
rough hand has touched me?” 

“T mean to say, signora, that it will be a happiness to the 
king, if the sad experience of the last few days should make 
you milder and gentler of mood,” said Algarotti. 

Rothenberg and himself had gone to Barbarina to find 
out, if possible, the whole truth. They wished to deceive her 
—to lead her to believe that the king had fully confided in 
them. 

“The king was suffering severely yesterday from the 
wounds which the sharp thorns of the red rose had inflicted,” 
said Rothenberg. 

“ And did he not cruelly revenge himself?” cried Barba- 
rina. “He left me for long hours kneeling at his door, 
wringing my hands, and pleading for pity and pardon, and he 
showed no mercy. But that is past, forgotten, forgiven. 
My wounds have bled and they have healed, and now health 
and happiness will return to my poor martyred heart. Say 
to my king that I am humble. I pray for happiness, not as 
my right, but as a royal gift which, kneeling and with up- 
lifted hands, I will receive, oh, how gratefully! But no, no, 
you shall not tell this to the king—I will confess all myself 
to his majesty. Come, come, the king awaits us—let us 
hasten to him!” 

“We were only commanded to inquire after the health 
of the signora,” said Algarotti, coolly. 

“ And as you have assured us that you have passed the 
night in tears and repentance, this confession may perhaps 
ameliorate his majesty’s sufferings,” said Rothenberg. 

Barbarina looked amazed from one to the other. Sud- 
denly her cheeks became crimson, and her eyes flashed with 
passion. “ You did not come to conduct me to the king?” 
said she, breathlessly. 

“No, signora, the king did not give us this commis- 
sion.” 

“ Ah! he demands, then, that I shall come voluntarily? 
Well, then, I will go uncalled. Lead me to his majesty!” 

“That is a request which I regret I cannot fulfil. The 
king has sternly commanded us to admit no one.” 

*'No one?” 


842 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“No one, without exception, signora,” said Algarotti, 
bowing profoundly. 

Barbarina pressed her lips together to restrain a cry of 
anguish. She pressed her hands upon the table to sustain 
her sinking form. “ You have only come to say that the 
king will not receive me; that to-day, as yesterday, his doors 
are closed against me. Well, then, gentlemen, you have ful- 
filled your duty. Go and say to his majesty I shall respect 
his wishes—go, sirs! ” 

Barbarina remained proudly erect, and replied to their 
greeting with a derisive smile. With her hands pressed 
nervously on the table, she looked after the two cavaliers as 
they left her saloon, with wide-extended, tearless eyes. But 
when the door closed upon them, when sure she could not be 
heard by them, she uttered so wild, so piercing a ery of an- 
guish, that Marietta rushed into the room. Barbarina had 
sunk, as if struck by lightning, to the floor. 

“T am dishonored, betrayed, spurned,” cried she, madly. 
“© God! let me not outlive this shame—send death to my 
relief!” 

Soon, however, her cries of despair were changed to words 
of scorn and bitterness. She no longer wished to die—she 
wished to revenge herself. She rose from her knees, and 
paced the room hastily, raging, flashing, filled with a burn- 
ing thirst for vengeance, resolved to cast a veil over her 
shame, and hide it, at least, from the eyes of the world. 

“Marietta, O Marietta!” cried she, breathlessly, “ help 
’ me to find the means quickly, by one blow to satisfy my venge- 
ance!—a means which will prove to the king that I am 
not, as he supposes, dying from grief and despair; that I 
am still the Barbarina—the adored, triumphant, all-conquer- 
ing artiste—a means which will convince the whole world 
that I am not deserted, scorned, but that I myself am the 
inconstant one. Oh, where shall I find the means to rise 
triumphantly from this humiliation? where—” 

“Silence, silence, sister! some one is coming. Let no 
one witness your agitation.” 

The servant entered and announced that Baron von 
Swartz, director of the theatre, wished to know if the sig- 
nora would appear in the ballet of the evening. 


 — 


ea as 


— 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 343 


“ Say to him that I will dance with pleasure,” said Barba- 
rina. 

When once more alone, Marietta entreated her to be 
quiet, and not increase her agitation by appearing in pub- 
lic. 

Barbarina interrupted her impatiently. “ Do you not see 
that already the rumor of my disgrace has reached the 
theatre? Do you not see the malice of this question of 
Baron Swartz? They think the Barbarina is so completely 


«broken, crushed by the displeasure of the king, that she can 


no longer dance. They have deceived themselves—I will 
dance to-night. Perhaps I shall go mad; but I will first re- 
fute the slander, and bring to naught the report of my dis- 
grace with the king.” 

And now the servant entered and announced Monsieur 
Cocceji. 

“You cannot possibly receive him,” whispered Marietta. 
“Say that you are studying your réle for the evening; say 
that you are occupied with your toilet. Say what you will, 
only decline to receive him.” 

Barbarina looked thoughtful for a moment. “ No,” said 
she, musingly, “I will not dismiss him. Conduct Cocceji 


to my boudoir, and say he may expect me.” 


The moment the servant left them, Barbarina seized her 
sister’s hand. “I have prayed to God for means to revenge 
myself, and He has heard my prayer. You know Cocceji 
loves me, and has long wooed me in vain. Well, then, to- 
day he shall not plead in vain; to-day I will promise him 
my love, but I will make my own conditions. Come, Ma- 
rietta! ” 

Glowing and lovely from excitement, Barbarina entered 
the boudoir where the young Councillor Cocceji, son of the 
minister, awaited her. With an enchanting smile, she ad- 
vanced to meet him, and fixing her great burning eyes upon 
him, she said softly, “ Are you not yet cured of your love for 
me?” " 

The young man stepped back a moment pale and wound- 
ed, but Barbarina stood before him in her wondrous beauty; 
a significant, enchanting smile was on her lip, and in her eyes 
lay something so sweetly encouraging, so bewildering, that 


3844 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


he was reassured, he felt that it was not her intention to 
mock at his passion. 

“ This love is a fatal malady of which I shall never be 
healed,” he said warmly; “a malady which resists all reme- 
dies.” 

“What if I return your love?” said she in soft, sweet 
tones. 

Cocceji’s countenance beamed with ecstasy; he was com- 
pletely overcome by this unlooked-for happiness. 

“ Barbarina, if I dream, if I am a somnambulist, do not 
awaken me! If, in midsummer madness only, I have heard 
these blissful words, do not undeceive me! Let me dream on, 
give my mad fancy full play; or slay me if you will, but do 
not say that I mistake your meaning! ” 

“T shall not say that,” she whispered, almost tenderly. 
“For a long year you have sworn that you loved me.” 

“ And you have had the cruelty to jest always at my pas- 
sion.” 

“From this day I believe in your love, but you must give 
me a proof of it. Will you do that?” 

“T will, Barbarina! ” 

“Well, then, I demand no giant task, no herculean labor; 
there is no rival whom you must murder! I demand only 
that you shall make your love for me known to the whole 
world. Give éclat to this passion! I demand that with head 
erect, and clear untroubled eye, you shall give the world a 
proof of this love! I will not that this love you declare to 
me so passionately shall be hidden under a veil of mystery 
and silence. I demand that you have the courage to let the 
sun in the heavens and the eyes of men look down into your 
heart and read your secret, and that no quiver of the eyelids, 
no feeling of confusion shall shadow your countenance. I 
will that to-morrow all Berlin shall know and believe that the 
young Councillor Cocceji, the son of the minister, the favor- 
ite of the king, loves the Barbarina ardently, and that she 
returns his passion. Berlin must know that this is no cold, 
northern, German, phlegmatic liking, which chills the blood 
in the veins and freezes the heart, but a full, ardent, glowing 
passion, animating every fibre of our being—an Italian love, 
a love of sunshine, and of storm, and of tempest.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 345 


7 


Barbarina was wholly irresistible; her bearing was proud, 
her eyes sparkled, her face beamed with energy and enthu- 
siasm. A less passionate nature than that of Cocceji would 
have been kindled by her ardor, would have been carried 
away by her energy. 

The fiery young Cocceji threw himself at her feet. 
“Command me! my name, my life, my hand, are yours; 
only love me, Barbarina, and I will be proud to declare how 
much I love you; to say to the whole world this is my bride, 
and I am honored and happy that she has deigned to accept 
my hand!” 

“Of this another time,” said Barbarina, smiling; “ first 
prove to the world that you love me. This evening in the 
theatre give some public evidence, give the Berliners some- 
thing to talk about: then—then—” said she, softly, “the rest 
will come in time.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE DISTURBANCE IN THE THEATRE. 


DUKE ALGAROTTI and General Rothenberg returned to. 
the castle much comforted by their interview with Barba- 
rina. 

“The Barbarina repents, and is ready to take the first 
step toward reconciliation,” said Rothenberg; “I see the 
end; I will go at once and order my cook to prepare a splen- 
did supper for the evening.” 

“Do not be hasty,” said Algarotti, shaking his head; 
“you may give your cook unnecessary trouble, and the rich 
feast might be cold before the arrival of the king.” 

“Do you believe that?” 

“T believe that for a summer cloud or an April shower 
the king would not withdraw himself to solitude and silence. 
It is no passing mood, but a life question which agitates 
him.” 

“The door has not been opened to-day; Fredersdorf has 
repeatedly begged for admittance.” 


346 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


The two friends stood sad and irresolute in the ante- 
room, alarmed at the seclusion and silence of the king. Sud- 
denly the door leading into the corridor was hastily opened, 
and a man of commanding and elegant appearance stood 
upon the threshold; you saw at a glance that he was a cavalier . 
and a courtier, while his glowing cheek, his clear, bright eyes, 
and jovial smile betrayed the man of pleasure and the epi- 
cure. This remarkable man, in whom every one who looked | 
upon him felt confidence ; whose face,in spite of the thousand | 
wrinkles which fifty years of an active, useful life had laid 
upon it, still retained an innocent, amiable, and childlike ex- 
pression—this man was the Marquis d’Argens, the true, un- 
changeable, never-faltering friend of the king. He had. 
consecrated to him his heart, his soul, his whole being; so 
great was his reverence for his royal master, that the letters 
received from him were always read standing. The marquis 
had just returned from Paris; he entered the anteroom of 
the king with a gay and happy smile, impatient and eager to 
see his beloved master. Without looking around, he hast- 
ened to the door which led into the cabinet of the king. 
Rothenberg and Algarotti drew near to him, and greeted him 
joyously, then told him of the strange seclusion of the king. 
The countenance of the marquis was troubled, and his eyes 
filled with tears. 

“We must not allow this,” he said decidedly; “I will 
kneel before the door, and pray and plead till the noble heart 
of the king is reached, and he will have pity with our anxiety. 
Go, Fredersdorf, and announce me to his majesty.” 

“ Sire,” said Fredersdorf, knocking on the door, “ sire, 
the Marquis d’Argens is here and begs for admittance.” 

No answer was given. 

“ Oh, sire,” said the marquis, “be merciful; have con- 
sideration for my eagerness to see you after so long an ab- 
sence; I have travelled day and night in order to enjoy that 
happiness a few hours sooner. I wish to warm and solace 
myself in the sunshine of your glance; be gracious, and 
allow me to enter.” 

A breathless silence followed this earnest entreaty. At 
last the door was shaken, a bolt was drawn back, and the king 
appeared on the threshold. He was pale, but of that clear 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 347 


and transparent pallor which has nothing in common with 
the sallow hue of physical weakness; there was no trace of 
nervous excitement. Smiling, and with calm dignity, he 
approached his friends. 

“ Welcome, marquis, most welcome! may joy and happi- 
ness crown your return! No doubt you have much to relate 
to us of your wild and impudent countrymen, and I see that 
Rothenberg and Algarotti are burning with curiosity to hear 
an account of your love adventures and rendezvous with your 
new-baked and glowing duchesses and princesses.” 

“ Ah, your majesty, he approached me with the proud 
mien of a conqueror,” said Rothenberg, gladly entering into 
the jesting humor of the king. “ We are more than ready 
to believe in the triumphs of the marquis at the court of 
Louis the Fifteenth.” 

“ The marquis has done wisely if he has left his heart in 
Paris,” said Algarotti. ‘“ Your majesty knows that he suf- 
fers greatly with heart disease, and every girl whom he does 
not exactly know to be a rogue, he believes to be an angel of 
innocence.” 

“You know,” said Rothenberg, “that shortly before his 
journey, his house-keeper stole his service of silver. The 
marquis promised to give her the worth of the silver if she 
would discover the thief and restore it. She brought it 
back immediately, and the marquis not only paid her the 
promised sum, but gave her a handsome reward for her 
adroitness in discovering the robber. As D’Argens triumph- 
antly related this affair to me, I dared to make the remark 
that the housekeeper was herself the rogue, the good marquis 
was as much exasperated with me as if I had dared to charge 
him with theft! ‘Have more reverence for women,’ said he 
to me, gravely; ‘to complain of, or accuse a woman, is a 
crime against God and Nature. Women are virtuous and 
noble when not misled, and I cannot see who could have 
tempted my good house-keeper; she is, therefore, innocent.’ ” 

All laughed heartily, but D’Argens, who cast his eyes to 
the ground, looking somewhat ashamed. But the king ad- 
vanced, and laying both hands upon the shoulders of the 
marquis, he looked into the kindly, genial face with an ex- 
pression of indescribable love and confidence. 


348 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“He has the heart of a child, the intellect of a sage, and 
the imagination of a poet, by the grace of God,” said the 
king. “If all men were like him, this earth would be no 
vale of tears, but a glorious paradise! It is a real happiness 
to me to have you here, my dear D’Argens. You shall take 
the place of the Holy Father, and bless and consecrate a 
small spot of earth for me. With your pure lips you shall 
pray to the house gods for their blessing and protection on 
my hearth, and beseech them to pour a little joy and mirth 
into the cup of wormwood and gall which this poor life 
presses to our lips. My palace of Weinberg, near Potsdam, 
is finished. I will drive you there to-day—you alone, mar- 
quis! As for the others, they are light-minded, audacious, 
suspicious children of men, and they shall not so soon 
poison the air in my little paradise with their levities. You 
alone, D’Argens, are worthy. You are pure as those who 
lived before the fall. You have never tasted of the ominous 
and death-giving apple. You will go with me, then, to Wein- 
berg, and when you have consecrated it, you shall relate to 
me the chronique scandaleuse of the French court. Now, 
however, I must work!—Fredersdorf, are my ministers 
here?” 

“ Sire, they have been an hour in the bureau.” 

“ Who is in the anteroom?” 

“Baron Swartz, with the répertoire of the week.” 

“ Ah! Swartz,” said the king, thoughtfully, “let him 
enter.” 

Fredersdorf hastened to summon the director, and the 
king recommenced his careless conversation with his friends. 
As the baron entered, the king stepped forward to meet him, 
and took a paper from his hand. He read it with seeming 
indifference, but his lips were compressed and his brow 
clouded. 

“ Who will dance the solo this evening in Re Pastore?” 
he said, at last. 

“ Signora Barbarina, your majesty.” 

“ Ah! the Signora Barbarina,” said the king, carelessly. 
“T thought I heard that she was indisposed ?” 

Frederick’s eyes were fixed searchingly upon his friends. 
He perhaps suspected the truth, and thought it natural that, 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 349 


in the disquiet of their hearts, they had sought an explana- 
tion of Barbarina. 

“Sire,” said Rothenberg, “Signora Barbarina has en- 
tirely recovered. Algarotti and myself made her a visit 
this morning, and she commissioned us, if your majesty 
should be gracious enough to ask for her, to say that she 
was well and happy.” 

The king made no reply. He walked thoughtfully back- 
ward and forward, then stood before D’Argens, and said, in 
a kindly tone: “You are so great an enthusiast for the 
stage that it would be cruel to take you to Weinberg this 
evening. We will go to the theatre and see Barbarina dance, 
and to-morrow you shall consecrate my house; and now, 
adieu, gentlemen—I must work! You will be my guests 
at dinner, and will accompany me to the theatre.” 

The king entered his study. “She defies me,” said he 
lightly to himself. “She will prove to me that she is indif- 
ferent. Well, so be it; I will also show that I have recov- 
ered!” 

The theatre was at last opened. A brilliant assembly 
filled the first range of boxes, and the parquet. The sec- 
ond tier and the parterre were occupied by the burghers, 
merchants, and their wives and daughters, who were waiting 
with joyful impatience for the commencement of the per- 
formance. The brilliant court circle, however, was ab- 
sorbed by other interests. A murmur had spread abroad 
that “the Barbarina had fallen into disgrace and lost for- 
ever the favor of the king.” The wild despair of the beauti- 
ful dancer was spoken of, and there were some who declared 
that she had made an attempt to take her life. Others as- 
serted that she had sworn never again to appear on the Ber- 
lin stage, and that she would assuredly feign illness in order 
not to dance. All were looking anxiously for the rising of 
the curtain, and toward the side door through which the king 
and his suite were accustomed to enter. 

At last the door opened; the drums and trumpets sounded 
merrily; the king entered, and walked with calm composure 
to his chair. The bell rang, the curtain rolled up, and the 
ballet began. 

There was at first a dance of shepherds, and shepherd- 


a 


350 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


esses, then an interruption by fauns and satyrs, who inter- 
mingled in groups with the first dancers and ranged them- 
selves on the side of the stage, waiting for the appearance of 
the shepherd queen. There was a breathless pause—every 
eye but the king’s was fixed upon the stage. 

And now there was an outburst of admiration and en- 
thusiasm. Yes, there she was; rosy, glowing, perfumed, 
tender, enchanting, and intoxicating, she floated onward in 
her robe of silver. Her magical smile disclosed her small, 
pearly teeth and laughing dimples; her great, mysterious 
black eyes understood the art of flattery and of menace; 
in both they were irresistible. Noiselessly she floated on- 
ward to the front of the stage. Now, with indescribable 
grace, she bowed her body backward, and standing on tip- 
toe she raised her rounded arms high over her head, and 
looked upward, with a sweet smile, to a wreath of roses which 
she held. 

“Wondrous, most wondrous!” cried suddenly a full, 
clear voice. It was the young state councillor, Von Cocceji, 
who sat in the proscenium box near the stage, and gazed with. 
beaming eyes on Barbarina. 

Barbarina turned toward him, and smiled sweetly. The 
king frowned, and played rather fiercely with his snuff-box. 

“ Wondrous!” repeated Cocceji, and threw a threatening, 
scornful glance upon a thin, wan young man who sat near 
him, and who dared, in a small, weak voice to repeat the 
“ wondrous” of the young athlete. “I pray you, sir, to re- 
frain from the expression of your applause, or, if that is im- 
possible, choose your own words, and not mine to convey your 
approbation,” said the six-footed giant, Cocceji, to his pallid 
neighbor. 

The latter looked with a sort of horror at the broad- 
shouldered, muscular figure before him, and scarcely daring 
to breathe loudly, he looked with wide-open, staring eyes at 
Barbarina, who was now floating with enchanting grace 
upon the stage. The audience had entirely forgotten the 
vague rumors of the day—thought no more of the king. 
Their attention was wholly given to Barbarina and Cocceji, 
whose eyes were ever fixed threateningly upon his shrinking 
neighbor. Suddenly, just as Barbarina had completed one 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 351 


of her most difficult tours and knelt before the lamps to re- 
ceive the bravos of the spectators, something flew from the 
loge of Cocceji, and fell exactly at Barbarina’s feet. 

This offering was no wreath or bouquet of flowers, no 
costly gem, but a man, a poor, panting, terrified man, who 
did not yet comprehend how he came to make this rapid 
journey through the air, nor why Cocceji with his giant hand 
had seized him and dashed him upon the stage. 

Confused and terrified, the poor bruised youth lay for 
some moments motionless at the feet of Barbarina; then 
gathering himself up and bowing profoundly to the king, 
who regarded him in fierce silence, he said aloud: “ Sire, I 
pray for pardon; I am not to blame; Cocceji forbade me, in 
a proud, commanding tone, to look upon the Signora Barba- 
rina. As I did not choose to obey this arbitrary order, he 
seized me without warning, and dashed me at the feet of the 
signora.” * The public, recovering from their astonish- 
ment, began to whisper, laugh merrily, and gaze ironically at 
the young man, who stood humble and wan near Barbarina; 
while Cocceji, turning his bold, daring face to the audience, 
seemed to threaten every man who looked upon him ques- 
tioningly. The orchestra was silent. Barbarina stood ra- 
diant in grace and beauty, and smiled bewitchingly upon 
Cocceji. 

“Go on,” said suddenly the clear, commanding voice of 
the king, as he nodded to the poor youth, who disappeared 
behind the curtain. “Go on,” said the king again. The 
music commenced, and Barbarina, raising her garland of 
roses, swam like an elf over the boards. The audience 
thought not of her grace and beauty. They were wholly 
occupied with this curious adventure; they had forgotten her 
disgrace. They thought only of Cocceji’s passionate love, 
and declared he was jealous as a Turk. So Barbarina had 
‘gained her purpose. 


* Michler’s “ History of Frederick the Great.” 


852 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


CHAPTER XVII. 


SANS-SOUCI. 


EARLY the next morning a plain, simple equipage stood at 
the gate of the new park in Potsdam. The king and the 
Marquis D’Argens entered the carriage alone. Frederick re- 
fused all other attendance; even his servants were forbidden 
to accompany him. 

When the carriage stopped he opened the door himself, 
and springing lightly out, offered his arm to his older and 
less agile friend. The marquis blushed like a young girl, 
and wished to decline this offered service of the king. 

Frederick, however, insisted upon giving his assistance, 
and said, smiling: “ Forget, D’Argens, for this day, that I 
am a king; grant me the pleasure of passing the time with 
you without ceremony, as friend with friend. Come, mar- 
quis, enter my paradise, and I pray you to encourage a sol- 
emn and prayerful mood.” 

“Do you know, sire, I have a feeling of oppression and 
exaltation combined, such as the Grecians may have felt 
when they entered the Delphian valley?” said D’Argens, 
as arm in arm with the king they sauntered through the 
little shady side allée which the king had expressly chosen 
in order to surprise the marquis with the unexpected view 
of the beautiful height upon which the castle was erected. 

“ Well, I believe that many oracles will go out from this 
height to the world,” said Frederick; “ but they shall be less 
obscure, shall bear no double meaning; shall not be partly 
false, shall contain great shining truths. I also, dear 
D’Argens, feel inspired. I seem to see floating before me 
through the trees a majestic, gigantic form of air, with up- 
lifted arm beckoning me to follow her. That is the spirit of 
the world’s history, marquis; she carries her golden book on 
her arm; in her right hand, with which she beckons me, 
she holds the diamond point with which she will engrave my 
name and this consecrated spot upon her tables. Therefore, 
my holy father and priest, I have brought you here to bap- 
tize my Weinberg. Come, friend, that form of air beckons 
once more; she awaits the baptism with impatience.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 353 


And now they passed from the little allée and entered the 
great avenue; an expression of admiration burst from the 
lips of the marquis; with flashing eyes he gazed around upon 
the magnificent and enchanting scene. Here, just before 
them, was the grand basin of marble, surrounded with groups 
of marble statues; farther off the lofty terraces, adorned 
with enormous orange-trees, rustling their glossy leaves and 
pearly blossoms in the morning breeze, greeting their king 
with their intoxicating fragrance. Upon the top of these 
superb terraces, between groups of marble forms and laugh- 
ing cascades, stood the little castle of Weinberg, beautiful in 
its simplicity; upon its erntral upola stood 2 golden crown, 
which sparkled and glittered in the sunshine. 

The king pointed to the crown. “ Look,” said he, “how 
it flashes in the sun, and throws its shadow upon all beneath 
it: so is it, or may it be, with my whole life! May my 
crown and my reign be glorious!” 

The marquis pressed his hand tenderly. “They will be 
great and glorious through all time,” said he. “ Your grand- 
children and your great-grandchildren will speak of the lus- 
tre which played upon that crown, and when they speak of 
Prussia’s greatness they will say: “ When Frederick the 
Second lived, the earth was glad with light and sunshine.’ ” 

Arm in arm, and silently, they mounted the marble steps 
of the terrace. Deep, holy silence surrounded them, the 
cascades prattled softly. The tops of the tall trees which 
bordered the terrace bowed and whispered lowly with the 
winds; here and there was heard the melodious note of a 
bird. No noise of the mad world, no discord interrupted 
this holy peace of nature. They seemed to have left the 
world behind them, and with solemn awe to enter upon a new 
existence. 

Now they had reached the height; they turned and 
looked back upon the beautiful panorama which lay at their 
feet. The luxurious freshness, the artistic forms, the blue 
and graceful river winding through the wooded heights and 
green valleys, formed an enchanting spectacle. 

“Ts not this heavenly?” said Frederick, and his face 
glowed with enjoyment. “Can we not rest here in peace, 
away from all the sorrows and sufferings of this world?” 


354 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“This is, indeed; a paradise,” cried the marquis. He 
spread out his arms in ecstasy, as if he would clasp the whole 
lovely picture to his breast; then, turning his eyes to heaven, 
he exclaimed, “O God! grant that my king may be happy in 
this consecrated spot! ” 

“Happy?” repeated Frederick, with a slight shrug. 
“Say content, marquis. I believe that is the highest point 
any man attains upon this earth. And now let us enter the 
house.” 

He took the arm of the marquis, and then stepped over 
the golden sand to the large glass door which led to the round 
saloon. As Frederick opened the door he fixed his great blue 
eyes steadily upon D’Argens. 

“Pray! marquis, pray! we stand upon the threshold of 
a new existence, which now opens her mysterious portals 
to us. 

“Sire, my every thought is a prayer for you at this mo- 
ment.” 

They entered the oblong saloon. 

“This is the room which separates me from my friends,” 
said the king. “This side of the house I will dwell; that 
side is for the use of my friends, above all others, dear mar- 
quis, for you. In this saloon we will meet together, and here 
will be mysymposium. Now I will show you my own room, 
then the others.” 

In the reception-room, which was adorned with taste and 
splendor, Frederick remained but a few moments; he scarce- 
ly allowed his artistic friend a fleeting glance at the superb 
pictures which hung upon the walls, and for the selection of 
which he had sent the merchant, Gotzkowsky, several times 
to Italy; he gave him no time to look upon the statues and 
vases of the Poniatowsken Gallery, for which four hundred 
thousand thalers had been paid, but hurried him along. 

“You must first see my work-room,” said Frederick; 
“ afterward we will examine the rest.” 

He opened the door and conducted the marquis into the 
round library which had no other adorning than that of 
books; they stood arrayed in lofty cases around this temple 
of intellect, of art, and science, and even the door through 
which they had entered, and which the king had lightly 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 355 


pressed back, had now entirely disappeared behind the books, 
with which it was cunningly covered’on the inside. 

“You see,” said Frederick, “he who enters into this 
magic circle is confined for life. He cannot get out, and I 
will have itso. With this day begins a new existence for me, 
D’Argens. When I crossed the threshold, the past fell from 
me like an over-ripe fruit.” 

Frederick’s face was sad, his eye clouded; with a light 
sigh he laid his hand upon the shoulder of the marquis and 
looked at him long and silently. 

“TI wish to tell you a secret,” said he at last. “I believe 
my heart died yesterday, and I confess to you the death- 
struggle was hard. Now it is past, but the place where my 
heart once beat is sore, and bleeds yet from a thousand 
wounds. They will heal at last, and then I shall be a hard 
and hardened man. We will speak no more of it.” 

“No, sire, we shall not say that you will ever be hard- 
ened,” cried D’Argens, deeply moved. “ You dare not slan- 
der your heart and say that it is dead. It beats, and will 
ever beat for your friends, for the whole world, for all that 
is great, and glorious, and exalted.” 

“Only no longer for love,” said the king; “that is a 
withered rose which I have cast from me. The roses of love 
are not in harmony with thrones or crowns; they grow too 
high and climb over, or their soft rosy leaves are crushed. 
I owe it to my people to keep myself free from all chains 
and make my reign glorious. I will never give them occa- 
sion to say that I have been an idle and self-indulgent sa- 
vant. I dedicate to Prussia my strength and my life. But 
here, friend, here in my cloister, which, like the Convent of 
the Carmelites, shall never be desecrated by a woman’s foot; 
here we will, from time to time, forget all the pomps and 
glories of the world, and all its vanities. Here, upon my 
ne id I will not be a king, but a friend and a philoso- 
pher. 

“And a poet,” said D’Argens, in loving tones. “I will 
now recall a couplet to the poet-king, which he once repeated 
to me, when I was melancholy—almost hopeless: 


* Nous avons deux moments A vivre; 
Qu’il en soit un pour le plaisir.’ ” 


356 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“Can you believe that we have not already exhausted this 
moment?” said Frederick, with a sad smile. Then, after 
a short pause, his face lightened and his eye glowed with its 
wonted fire; a gay resolve was written in his countenance. 
“Well, let us try, marquis, if you are right; let us seek to 
extend this moment as long as possible, and when death - 
comes— 

Finissons sans trouble, et mourons sans regrets, 
En laissant l’univers, comblé de nos bienfaits. 
Ainsi l’astre du jour au bout de sa carriére, 
Repand sur l’horizon une douce lumiére, 

Et les derniers rayons qu’il darde dans les airs, 
Sont ses derniers soupirs qu’il donne 4 l’univers.” 


The marquis listened with rapture to this improvised 
poem of the king. When it was concluded, the fiery Proven- 
gal called out, in an ecstasy of enthusiasm: “ You are not a 
mere mortal, sire; you are a king—a hero—yes, a demi- 
god!” 

“T will show you something to disprove your flattering 
words,” said Frederick, smiling. “ Look out, dear D’Argens; 
what do you see, there, directly opposite to the window?” 

“Does your majesty mean that beautiful statue in 
marble?” 

“Yes, marquis. What do you suppose that to be?” 

“That, sire? It is a reclining statue of Flora.” 

“No, D’Argens; that is my grave!” 

“Your grave, sire?” said the marquis, shuddering; “ and 
you have had it placed exactly before the window of your 
favorite study?” 

“ Exactly there; that I may keep death always in re- 
membrance ! Come, marquis, we will draw nearer.” 

They left the house, and advanced to the Rondel, where 
the superb statue of Flora was reclining. 

“There, under this marble form, is the vault in which I 
shall lie down to sleep,” said Frederick. “I began my build- 
ing at Weinberg with this vault. But it is a profound 
secret; guard it well, also, dear friend! The living have 
a holy horror of death; it is not well to speak of graves or 
death lightly!” 

D’Argen’s eyes were filled with tears. “Oh, sire! may, 


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FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 357 


this marble lie immovable, and the grave beneath it be a 
mystery for many long years!” 

The king shook his head lightly, and a heavenly peace 
was written on his features. “Why do you wish that?” 
said he. Then pointing to the grave, he said: “ When I lie 
there-—Je serais sans souci !” * 

“ Sans souci!” repeated D’Argens, in low tones, deeply 
moved, and staring at the vault. 

The king took his hand smilingly. “ Let us seek, even 
while we live, to be sans souci, and as evidence that I will 
strive for this, this house shall be called Sans-Souci !’” 


* Nicolai, “ Anecdotes of King Frederick.” 


BOOK IV. 


CHAPTER I. 


THE PROMISE. 


Tt was a lovely summer day. The whole earth seemed to 
look up with a smile of faith, love, and happiness into the 
clear, blue heavens, whose mysterious depths give promise of 
a brighter and better future. Sunshine and clouds were mir- 
rored in the rapid river and murmuring brook; the stately 
trees and odorous flowers bowed with the gentle west wind, 
and gave a love-greeting to the glorious vault above. 

Upon the terrace of Sans-Souci stood the king, and 
looked admiringly upon the lovely panorama spread out at 
his feet. Nature and art combined to make this spot a 
paradise. The king was alone at the palace of Sans- 
Souci; for a few happy hours he had laid aside the burden 
and pomp of royalty. He was now the scholar, the philoso- 
pher, the sage, and the friend; in one word, he was what he 
loved to call himself, the genial abbot of Sans-Souci. 

At the foot of the romantic hill upon which his palace 
was built Frederick laid aside the vain pomp and glory of — 
the world, and with them all its petty cares and griefs. 
With every step upon the terrace his countenance lightened 
and his breath came more freely. He had left the valley of 
tears and ascended the holy mountain. Repose and purity 
were around him, and he felt nearer the God of creation. 

Sans-Souci, now glittering in the sunshine, seemed to 
greet and cheer him. These two laconic but expressive 
words, sans souci, smoothed the lines which the crown and its 
duties had laid upon his brow, and made his heart, which was 


so cold and weary, beat with the hopes and strength of youth? 
358 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 359 


He was himself again, the warrior, the sage, the loving ruler, 
the just king, the philanthropist, the faithful, fond friend; 
the gay, witty, sarcastic companion, who felt himself most 
at home, most happy, in the society of scholars, artists, and 
writers. 

Genius was for Frederick an all-sufficient diploma, and 
those who possessed it were joyfully received at his court. 
If, from time to time, he granted a coat-of-arms or a duke’s 
diadem to those nobles, “ by the Grace of God,” it was not so 
much to do them honor as to exalt his courtiers by placing 
among them the great and intellectual spirits of his time. 
He had made Algarotti and ‘Chazot dukes, and Bielfield a 
baron; he had sent to Voltaire the keys of the wardrobe, in 
order that the chosen friend of the philosopher of Sans- 
Souci might without a shock to etiquette be also the com- 
panion of the King of Prussia in his more princely castles, 
and belong to the circle of prince, and princess, and noble. 

When Frederick entered Sans-Souci he laid aside all 
prejudices and all considerations of rank. He wished to 
forget that he was king, and desired his friends also to 
forget it, and to show him only that consideration which is 
due to the man of genius and of letters. Some of his friends 
had abused this privilege, and Frederick had been forced to 
humiliate them. There were others who never forgot at 
Sans-Souci the respect and reverence due to the royal house. 
Amongst these was his ever-devoted, ever-uniform friend, 
the Marquis d’Argens. He loved him, not because he was 
king, but because he believed him to be the greatest, best, 
most exalted of men. In the midst of his brilliant court 
circle and all his earthly pomp, D’Argens did not forget that 
Frederick was a man of letters, and his dear friend; even so, 
while enjoying the hospitalities of Sans-Souci, he remem- 
bered always that the genial scholar and gentleman was a 
great and powerful king. 

Frederick had the greatest confidence in D’Argens, and 
granted him more privileges than any other of his friends. 
Frederick invited many friends to visit him during the day, 
but the marquis was the only guest whose bedchamber was 
arranged for him at Sans-Souci. 

Four years have elapsed since D’Argens consecrated 


860 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Weinberg—since the day in which we closed our last chapter. 
We take advantage of the liberty allowed to authors, and 
pass over these four years and recommence our story in 1750, 
the year which historians are accustomed to consider the 
most glorious and happy in the life of Frederick the Second. 
We all know, alas! that earthly happiness resembles the 
purple rose, which, even while rejoicing the heart with her 
beauty and fragrance, wounds us with her thorns. We know 
that the sunshine makes the flowers bloom in the gardens, 
on the breezy mountains, and also on the graves; when we 
pluck and wear these roses, who can decide if we are in- 
fluenced by joy in the present or sad remembrances of the 
past ? 

Frederick the Great appeared to be gay and happy, but 
these four years had not passed away without leaving a 
mark upon his brow and a shadow on his heart; his youthful 
smile had vanished, and the expression of his lip was stern 
and resolved. He was now thirty-eight years of age, and 
was still a handsome man, but the sunshine of life had left 
him; his eyes could flash and threaten like Jove’s, but the 
soft and loving glance was quenched. Like Polycrates, 
King Frederick, in order to propitiate fate, had sacrificed his 
idol. He had thus lost his rarest jewel, had become poor in 
love. Perhaps his crown rested more firmly upon his head, 
but his heart had received an almost mortal wound; it had 
healed, but he was hardened! 

Frederick thought not of the past four years, and their 
griefs and losses, as he stood now upon the terrace of Sans- 
Souci, illuminated by the evening sun, and gazed with rav- 
ished eyes upon the panorama spread out before him. 

“ Beautiful, wondrous beautiful!” he said to himself. 
“T think Voltaire will find that the sun is even as warm 
and cheering at Sans-Souci as at Cirey, and that we can 
be gay and happy without the presence of the divine 
Emilie, who enters one moment with her children, and the 
next with her learned and abstruse’ books.* Ah! I wish 

* Voltaire lived for ten years in Cirey with his friend the Marquise Emilie 
de ChAtelet Samont, a very learned lady, to whom he was much devoted. He 
had refused all Frederick’s invitations because he was unwilling to be sepa- 


rated from this lady. After twenty baw of marriage, in the year 1749, the 
countess gave birth to her first child; two hours after the birth of her son, 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 361 


he were here; so long as I do not see him, I doubt if he 
will come.” 

At this moment the king saw the shadow of a manly 
figure thrown upon the terrace, which the evening sun length- 
ened into a giant’s stature. He turned and greeted the 
Marquis d’Argens, who had just entered, with a gracious 
smile. 

“You are indeed kind, marquis,” said Frederick; “ you 
have returned from Berlin so quickly, I think Love must 
have lent you a pair of wings.” 

“ Certainly, Love lent me his wings; the little god knew 
that your majesty was the object of my greatest admiration, 
and that I wished to fly to your feet and shake out from my 
horn of plenty the novelties and news of the day.” 

“There is something new, then?” said the king. “I 
have done well in sending you as an ambassador to the God- 
dess of Rumor; she has graciously sent you back full-handed: 
let us see, now, in what your budget consists.” 

“The first, and I am sorry to say the most welcome to 
your majesty, is this—Voltaire has arrived in Berlin, and 
will be here to-morrow morning.” 

The king’s countenance was radiant with delight, but he 
was considerate, and did not express his rapture. 

“Dear marquis, you say that Voltaire has arrived. Do 
you indeed regret it?” 

D’Argens was silent and thoughtful for a moment; he 
raised his head, and his eyes were obscured by tears. 

“Yes,” said he, “I am sorry! We greet the close of a 
lovely day, no matter how glorious the declining sun may be, 
with something of fear and regret; who can tell but that 
clouds and darkness may be round about the morning? To- 
morrow a new day dawns and a new sun rises in Sans-Souci. 
Sire, I grieve that this happy day is ended.” 

“ Jealous!” said the king, folding his arms and walking 
backward and forward upon the terrace. Suddenly he stood 
before D’Argens and laid his hands upon his shoulders. 
“You are right,” said he; “a new day dawns, a new sun rises 


? 


she seated herself at her writing-table to write an essay on the Newtonian 
doer ; in consequence of this she sickened and died in twodays, After her 
th, Voltaire accepted Frederick’s invitation to Sans-Souci. 


362 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


upon Sans-Souci, but I fear the sun’s bright face: will be 
clouded and the day will end in storm. Voltaire is the last 
ideal of my youth; God grant that I may not have to cast it 
aside with my other vain illusions! God grant that the man 
Voltaire may not cast down the genius Voltaire from the 
altar which, with willing hands, I have erected for him in my 
heart of hearts. I fear the cynic and the miser. I have a 
presentiment of evil! My altar will fall to pieces, and its 
ruins will crush my own heart. Say what you will, D’Argens, 
I have still a heart, though the world has gnawed at and 
undermined it fearfully.” 

“Yes, sire, a great, noble, warm heart,” cried D’Argens, 
deeply moved, “ full of love and poetry, of magnanimity and 
mercy!” 

“You must not betray these weaknesses to Voltaire,” 
said the king, laughing; “ he would mock at me, and I should 
suffer from his poisonous satire, as I have done more than 
once. Voltaire is miserly; that displeases me. Covetous- 
ness is a rust which will obscure and at last destroy the finest 
metal! The miser loves nothing but .imself. I fear that 
Voltaire comes to me simply for the salary I have promised 
him, and the four thousand thalers I have sent him for his 
journey! ” 

“In this, sire, you do both yourself and Voltaire in- ° 
justice. Voltaire is genial enough to look, not upon your 
crown, but upon the clear brow which it shades. He admires 
and seeks you, not because you are a king, but because you 
are a great spirit, a hero, an author, a scholar, and a philoso- 
pher, and, best of all, a good and noble man.” 

“What a simple-minded child you are, marquis!” said 
Frederick, with a sad smile; “ you believe even yet in the 
unselfish attachments of men. Truly, you have a right to 
this rare faith; you, at least, are capable of such an affection. 
I am vain enough to believe that you are unselfishly devoted 
to me.” 

“God be thanked for this word!” said D’Argens, with a 
glowing countenance. “ And now let Voltaire and the seven 
wise men, and Father Abraham himself come; your Isaac 
fears none of them; my king has faith in me!” 

“Yes,” said Frederick, “I believe in you; an evil and 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 363 


bitter thing will it be, if the day shall ever come when I shall 
doubt you; from that time onward I will trust no man. I 
tell you, D’Argens, your kindly face and your love are neces-. 
sary to me; I will use them as a shield to protect myself 
against the darts and wiles of the false world. You must 
never leave me; I need your calm, kind eye, your happy 
smile, your childish simplicity, and your wise experience; 
I need a Pylades, I well believe that something of Orestes is 
hidden in my nature. And now, my Pylades, swear to me, 
swear to me that you will never leave me; that from this 
hour you will have no other fatherland than Prussia, no other 
home than Potsdam and Sans-Souci.” 

“ Ah, your majesty asks too much. I cannot adjure my 
fatherland, I cannot relinquish my Provence. I am the 
Switzer, with his song of home; when he hears it in his own 
land, his heart bounds with joy; when he hears it in a strange 
land, his eyes fill with sorrowful tears. So it is with the 
‘beau soleil de ma Provence,’ the remembrance of it warms 
my heart; I think that if I were a weak old man, the sight 
of my hoantiful sunny home would make me young and 
strong. Your majesty will not ask me to abandon my land 
forever?” 

“You love the sun of Provence, then, more than you do 
me,” said Frederick, with a slight frown. 

“Your majesty cannot justly say that, when I have 
turned my back upon it, and shouted for joy when the sun 
of the north has cast its rays upon me. Sire, let me pass my 
life under the glorious northern sun, but grant that I may die 
in my own land.” 

“You are incomprehensible, D’Argens; how can you 
know when you are about to die, and when it will be time to 
return to your beautiful Provence?” 

“Tt has been prophesied that I shall live to be very old, 
and I believe in prophecy.” 

“ What do you eall old, marquis? Zacharias was eighty 
years of age when his youthful wife of seventy gave birth 
to her first child.” 

“ God guard me from such an over-ripe youth and such a 
youthful wife, sire! I shall be content if my heart remains 
young till my seventieth year, and has strength to love my 


364 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


king and rejoice in his fame; then, sire, I shall be aged and 
cold, and then it will be time for the sun of Provence to 
shine upon me and my grave. When I am seventy years of 
age, your majesty must allow your faithful servant to re- 
member that France is his home, and to seek his grave even 
where his cradle stood.” 

“ Seventy, marquis! and how old are you now?” 

“ Sire, I am still young—forty-six years of age. You see 
I have only sought a plea to remain half an eternity at the 
feet of your majesty.” 

“ You are forty-six, and you are willing to remain twenty- 
four years at my side. I will then be sixty-six; that is to 
say, I will be hard of heart and cold of purpose. I will de- 
spise mankind, and have no illusions. Marquis, I believe 
when that time comes, I can give you up. Let it be so!— 
you remain with me till you are seventy. Give your word 
of honor to this, marquis.” 

“ Rather will your majesty be gracious enough to prom- 
ise not to dismiss me before that time?” 

“IT promise you, and I must have your oath in return.” 

“Sire, I swear! On that day in which I enter my seven- 
tieth year, I will send you my certificate of baptism, which 
you will also look upon as my funeral notice. You will say 
sadly, ‘The Marquis d’Argens is dead,’ and I—I will go 
to ma belle Provence, and seek my grave.” * 

“ But before this time you will become very religious, a 
devotee, will you not?” 

“Yes, sire; that is, I shall devoutly acknowledge all your 
goodness to me. I shall be the most religious worshipper of 
all that your majesty has done for the good of mankind, for 
the advancement of true Snowe and the glory of your 
great name.’ 

“So far, so good; but there is in this world another kind 
of religion, in the exercise of which you have as yet shown 
but little zeal. Will you at last assume this mask, and con- 
tradict the principles which you have striven to maintain 
during your whole life? Will you, at the approach of death, 
go through with those ceremonies and ime raion which re- 
ligion commands?” 


* Thiébault, vol. i., p. 360. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 365 


The marquis did not reply immediately. His eye turned 
to the beautiful prospect lying at his feet, upon which the 
last purple rays of the evening sun were now lingering. 

“This is God, sire!” said he, enthusiastically; “this is 
truly God! Why are men not content to worship Him in 
nature, to find Him where He most assuredly is? Why do 
they seek Him in houses made with hands, and—” 

“ And in wafers made of meal and water?” said Fred- 
erick, interrupting him; “ and now tell me, marquis, will you 
also one day seek Him thus?” 

“Yes, sire,” said D’Argens, after a short pause, “I will 
do thus from friendship to my brothers, and interest for my 
family.” 

“ That is to say, you will be unfaithful to the interests of 
philosophy and truth?” 

“Tt will appear so, sire; but no man of intellect and 
thought will be duped by this seeming inconsistency. If the 
part which I play seem unworthy, I may be excused in view - 
of my motive—at all events, I do not think it wrong. The 
folly of mankind has left me but one alternative—to be a 
hypocrite, or to prepare bitter grief for my relations, who 
love me tenderly. ‘ Out of love,’ then, for my family, I will 
die a hypocrite.* But, sire, why should we speak of death? 
why disquiet the laughing spirits of the Greeks and Romans, 
who now inhabit this their newest temple by discoursing of 
graves and skeletons?” 

“You are right, marquis—away with the ghastly spectre! 
This present life belongs to us, and a happy life it shall be. 
We will sit at the feet of Voltaire, and learn how to banish 
the sorrows of life by wit and mocking laughter. With the 
imagination and enthusiasm of poets, we will conceive this 


* The marquis returned to Provence, in his seventieth year, and died 
there. The journals hastened to make known that he died a Christian, re- 
canting his atheistical philosophy. The king wrote to the widow of the 
marquis for intelligence on this 25 gs She replied that her husband had 
received the last sacraments, but only after he was in the arms of death, and 
could neither see nor hear, and she herself had left the room. The marquise 
added : “ Ah, sire, what a land is this! I have been assured that the greatest 
service I could render to my husband would be to burn all his ble to 
give all his pictures to the flames; that the more we burn on earth of that 
which is sinful or leads to sin, the less we shall burn in hell!”—(uvres 
Posthumes, vol. xii., p. 316. 


~ 


366 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCT; OR, 


world to be a paradise. And now tell me what other news 
you have brought back with you from Berlin.” 

“ Well, sire, Voltaire is not the only star who has risen 
in Berlin. There are other comets which from time to time 
lighten the heavens, and then disappear for a season to re- 
appear and bring strife and war upon the earth.” 

Frederick looked searchingly upon the marquis. “ You 
speak in riddles—what comet has returned?” 

“ Sire, I know not what to call it. She herself claims a 
name, her right to which is dispu.ed by the whole world, 
though she swears by it.” 

“She? it is, then, a woman of whom you speak?” 

“Yes, sire; a woman whom for years we worshipped as 
a goddess, or at least as an enchanting fairy—Barbarina has 
returned to Berlin.” 

“ Returned?” said the king, indifferently; but he walked 
away thoughtfully to the end of the terrace, and gazed upon 
. the lovely landscape which, in its quiet beauty, brought peace 
to his heart, and gave him the power of self-control. 

The marquis stood apart, and looked with kindly interest 
upon his noble face, now lighted by the glad golden rays of 
the sinking sun. Among the trees arose one of those fierce, 
sighing winds, which often accompany the declining sun, and 
seem the last struggling groans of the dying day. This 
melancholy sound broke the peaceful stillness around the 
eastle, and drowned the babbling of the brooks and cascades. 
As the wild wind rustled madly through the trees, it tore 
from their green boughs the first faded, yellow leaves which 
had lain concealed, like the first white hairs on the temples 
of a beautiful woman, and drove them here and there in 
wanton sport. One of these withered leaves fell at the feet 
of the king. He took it up and gazed at it. Pensively he 
drew near the marquis. 

“Look you, friend,” said he, holding up the fallen leaf 
toward the marquis; “look you, this is to me the Barbarina 
—a faded remembrance of the happy past, and nothing more. 
Homer was right when he likened the hearts of men to the 
yellow leaves tossed and driven by the winds. Even such a 
leaf is Barbarina; I raise it and lay it in my herbarium with 
other mementoes, and rejoice that the dust and ashes of 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS, 367 


life have fallen upon it, and taken from it form and color. 
And now that you know this, D’Argens, tell me frankly why 
the signora has returned. Does she come alone, or with her 
husband, Lord Stuart McKenzie?” 

“ She has returned with her sister, and Lord Stuart is not 
cher husband. It is said that when Barbarina arrived in Eng- 
land, she found him just married to a rich Scotch lady.” 

The king laughed heartily. “ And yet men expect us to 
listen gravely when they rave of the eternity of their love,” 
said he. “This little sentimental lord called heaven and 
earth to witness the might of his love for Barbarina. Was 
‘he not almost a madman when I seized his jewel, and tore her 
away from Venice? Did he not declare that he would con- 
‘sider me answerable for his life and reason, if I did not re- 
lease my prima donna? He wished her to enter, with an 
-artistic pirouette, his lofty castle, and place herself, as Lady 
Stuart McKenzie, amongst his ever-worthy, ever-virtuous, 
-ever-renowned ancestors. And now, Barbarina can stand as 
godmother by his first born.” 

“ Or he perform that holy office for Barbarina. It is said 
‘that she is also married.” 

“To whom?” 

“To the state councillor, Cocceji.” 

“Folly! how can that be? She has been in England, and 
he has not left Berlin. But her return will bring us vexation 
and strife, and I see already the whole dead race of the 
‘Coccejis raising up their skéleton arms from their graves to 
threaten the bold dancer, who dares to call herself their 
daughter. I prophesy that young Cocceji will become even 
as cool and as reasonable as Lord Stuart McKenzie has be- 
come. Give a man time to let the fire burn out—all depends 
upon that. This favor his family may well demand of me, 
and I must grant it. But now let us enter the house, mar- 
quis, the sun has disappeared, and I am chilled. I know not 
whether the news you bring, or the evening air, has affected 
me. Let us walk backward and forward once or twice, and 
then we will go to the library, and you will assist me in the 
last verse of a poem I am composing to greet Voltaire. Do 
not frown, marquis, let me sing his weleome; who knows but 
I may also rejoice in his departure? My heart is glad at his 


368 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


coming, and yet I fear it. We must not scrutinize the sun 
too closely, or we will find spots upon his glorious face. Per- 
haps Voltaire and myself resemble each other too much to 
live in peace and harmony together. I think we are only 
drawn permanently to our opposites. Believe me, D’Argens, 
I shall not be able to live twenty-four years happily with 
Voltaire, as I shall surely do with you. Twenty-four years! 
do not forget that you are mine for twenty-four years.” 

“Sire, as long as I live I am yours. You have not 
bought me with gold; but by the power of a noble soul. So 
long as I live, my heart belongs to you, even when, at 
seventy, I fly to seek my grave in belle Provence. But, my 
king, I have yet another favor to ask of you.” 

“ Speak, marquis, but do not be so cruel as to ask that 
which I cannot grant.” 

“Tf it shall please Providence to call me away before I 
have attained my seventieth year, if I die in Berlin, will 
your majesty grant me the grace not to be buried in one of 
those dark, damp, dreary churchyards, where skull lies close 
by skull, and at the resurrection every one will be in danger 
of seizing upon the bones which do not belong to him, and 
appearing as a thief at the last judgment? I pray you, let 
me remain even in death an individual, and not be utterly 
lost in the great crowd. If I die here, grant that I may be 
buried where, when living, I have been most happy. Allow 
me, after a long and active day, to pass the night of im- 
mortality in the garden of Sans-Souci.” 

“Tt shall be so,” said the king, much moved. “ There, 
under the statue of Flora, is my grave—where shall be 
yours? Choose for yourself.” 

“Tf I dare choose, sire, let it be there under that beauti- 
ful vase of ebony.” 

Frederick gave a smiling assent, and taking the arm of 
the marquis, he said, “ Come, we will go to the vase, and I 
will lay my hand upon it and consecrate it to you.” 

Silently they passed the statue of Flora, which Frederick 
greeted gayly, and the marquis with profound reverence then 
mounted two small steps and stood upon the green circle. 
The king paused and looked down thoughtfully upon a 
gravestone which his feet almost touched. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 369 


“Be pious and prayerful on this spot,” said he; “we 
stand by the grave of my most faithful friend, who is enjoy- 
ing before us the happiness of everlasting sleep. Here lies 
Biche! Hat off, marquis! She loved me, and was faithful 
unto death. Who knows if I, under my statue of Flora, and 
you, unde~ your vase, will merit the praise which I, with my 
whole soul, award to my Biche! She was good and faithful 
to the end.” * 


CHAPTER II. 


VOLTAIRE AND HIS ROYAL FRIEND. 


THE king had withdrawn to his library earlier than usual; 
he had attended a cabinet council, worked for an hour with 
his minister of state, and, after fulfilling these public duties, 
withdrawn gladly to his books, hoping to consume the time 
which crept along with leaden feet. 

The king expected Voltaire; he knew he had arrived 
at Potsdam, where he would rest and refresh himself for a 
few hours, and then proceed at once to Sans-Souci. 

Frederick regarded this first meeting with Voltaire, after 
long years of separation, with more of anxiety than of joyful 
impatience. Voltaire’s arrival and residence at Sans-Souci 
had been the warm desire of Frederick’s heart for many 
years, and yet, as the time for its fulfilment drew near, the 
king almost trembled. What did this mean? How was it 
that this friendship, which for sixteen years had been so 
publicly avowed, and so zealously confirmed by private oaths 
and protestations, seemed now wavering and uncertain? 

About now to reach the goal so ardently striven for, the 
king felt that he was not pleased. <A cold blast seemed to 
sweep over him, and fill him with sad presentiments. 

Frederick was filled with wonder and admiration for the 
genius of the great French writer, but he knew that, as a 
man, Voltaire was unworthy of his friendship. He justly 


* Nicolai, “ Anecdoten.”—Heft, p. 202. 


370 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


feared that the realities of life and daily intercourse would 
fall like a cold dew upon this rare blossom of friendship be- 
tween a king and a poet; this tender plant which, during so 
many years of separation, they had nourished and kept warm 
by glowing assurances and fiery declarations, must now be re- 
moved from the hot-house of imagination, where it had been 
excited to false growth by the eloquence of letters, and. 
transplanted into a world of truth and soberness. 

This friendship had no real foundation; it floated like: 
a variegated phantom in the air, a fata morgana, whose glit-- 
tering temple halls and pillars would soon melt away like the: 
early cloud and the morning dew. In these “ cloud-capped. 
towers and gorgeous palaces,” the two great freethinkers: 
and genial philosophers of their century intended to culti-- 
vate and enjoy their friendship. In these temples of air 
they wished to embrace each other, but the two-edged sword. 
of mistrust and suspicion already flashed between them, and. 
both felt inclined to draw back. 

Both doubted the sincerity of this friendship, and the. 
less they believed in it the more eloquently they declaimed as. 
to its ardor and eternity. Each one thought to himself,. 
“T will enjoy and profit by the fruit of this friendship, I will! 
yield up the blossoms only.” The blossoms, alas! were arti- 
ficial, without odor and already fading, though at the first: 
glance they looked fresh and promising. 

Once, in the youthful ardor of his enthusiasm for genius. 
Frederick had forgotten himself so far as to kiss the hand’ 
of Voltaire.* The proud and ambitious poet had boasted 
loudly of this act of devotion; for this Frederick had never 
forgiven him; he should have guarded it as a holy and dan- 
gerous secret in the innermost shrine of his heart. Voltaire 
was angry with the king because he had lately addressed 
some verses to the young poet D’Arnaud, in which he was 
represented as the rising and Voltaire as the setting sun.t 
And yet they believed they loved each other, and were about 
to put their love to the severe test of uninterrupted inter- 
course. 

The king awaited Voltaire with impatience, and now he 
heard the rolling of carriage-wheels, then the opening of 

* Thiébault. + GEuvres posthumes. . 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 371 


doors, then the sound of voices. In the first impulse of joy 
he sprang from his seat and advanced eagerly to meet Vol- 
taire, but reaching the threshold of the door he stood still 
and considered. “No,” said he, “I will not go to meet him 
—he would mock at me, perhaps boast of it.” He turned 
back to his chair, and took up the book he had been reading. 
And now some one tapped gently upon the door, a servant ap- 
peared and announced “ Monsieur Voltaire,’ and now a 
figure stood upon the door-sill. 

This man, with a small, contracted chest, with a back 
bowed down by old age or infirmities; this man, with the 
wonderous countenance, of which no one could decide if it. 
was the face of a satyr or a demi-god; whose eyes flashed 
with heavenly inspiration at one moment, and in the next 
glowed with demoniac fire; whose lips were distorted by the 
most frightful grimaces or relaxed into the most enchanting 
smiles—this man is Voltaire. 

As Frederick’s glance met those burning eyes, he forgot. 
all else, his royalty, his dignity, even Voltaire’s baseness and 
vanity; he was to him the spirit of the age, the genius of the 
world, and he hastened to meet him, opened his arms wide, 
and pressed him tenderly to his heart. “ Welcome, welcome, 
my lord and master,” said the king; “I receive you, as be- 
comes a pupil, in my school-room, surrounded by my books, 
whose mysterious lessons of wisdom, you, my teacher, will 
make clear.” 

“On the contrary, sire,” said Voltaire, with a soft voice 
and a most enchanting smile—‘ on the contrary, you re- 
ceive me with all the pomp of royalty seated upon a throne,, 
which is not yours by inheritance, but which you have con- 
quered; upon the throne of knowledge and learning, crowned 
with the laurels which the gods consecrate to heroes and 
poets. Alas! my eyes are dazzled by the lustre which sur- 
rounds me. I bow in humility before this lordly head 
adorned by two royal crowns and reigning over two mighty 
kingdoms. Receive me, sire, as an ambassador from the 
realm of poets, whose crown you wear with so much grace 
and dignity.” 

Frederick smiled kindly. “ Let me be only a burgher and 
your comrade in arms in the republic of letters,” said he. 

24 


372 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“T hold republics generally as impossibilities, but I believe 
in a republic of letters, and I have a right republican heart, 
striving after liberty, equality, and brotherly love. Remem- 
ber this, friend, and let us forget at Sans-Souci that your 
comrade is sometimes the first servant of a kingdom. And 
now, tell me how you have borne the fatigues of the journey, 
and if you have been received at every station with the 
marked attention I had commanded.” 

“ Yes, sire, everywhere in Prussia I have felt myself al- 
most oppressed, humbled, by your greatness. How great, 
how mighty, how powerful, must your majesty be, when I am 
so distinguished, so honored, simply because I enjoy your fa- 
vor! This honor and this pleasure alone have given me 
strength for my journey. My friends in Paris thought it 
absurd and ridiculous for me, in my miserable condition, 
to attempt so fatiguing a journey. But, sire, I was not will- 
ing to die before I had once more sat at the feet of this great 
and yet simple man, this exalted yet genial philosopher. 
I wished to revive and quicken my sick heart at this fountain 
of wit and wisdom. I come, therefore, not as Voltaire, but 
as the tragic Scarron of your century, and throughout my 
whole journey I have called myself the ‘ Invalid of the King 
of Prussia.’ ” * 

Frederick laughed heartily. “The Marshal of Saxony 
and yourself are in the same condition with your maladies; 
in the extremity of illness you have more energy and power 
than all other men in the most robust health. Voltaire, if 
you had not come now I should have considered you a bad 
penny: in place of the true metal of friendship I should 
have suspected you of palming off plated lead upon me. It 
is well for you that you are here. You are like the white 
elephant for whom the Shah of Persia and the Great Mogul 
are continually at war. The one who is so fortunate as to 
possess the white elephant makes it always the occasion of an 
added title. I will follow their example, and from this time 
my title shall run thus: ‘ Frederick, by the grace of God, 
King of Prussia, Prince-Elector of Brandenburg, Possessor 
of Voltaire, etc. etc.” 

“Your majesty may say, ‘of inalienable Voltaire.’ I 

* Guvres Complétes de Voltaire. Cuvres Posthumes. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 373 


am wiser than the white elephant; no war shall be necessary 
to conquer or to hold me. I declare myself your majesty’s 
most willing subject joyfully. Let me then be your white 
elephant, sire, and if the Great Mogul covets and demands 
me, I pray you to conceal me.” 

While Voltaire was speaking, he cast a sly glance upon 
the countenance of the king, his smile disappeared, and his 
face lost its kindly expression. 

Frederick did not, or would not see it. “ Not so,” said 
he, gayly; “I will not conceal you, but boldly declare that 
you are mine.” 

“T am, nevertheless, the subject of the King of France,” 
said Voltaire, shrugging his shoulders. “ When I resolved 
to leave Paris, they did not deprive me of my title of ‘ His- 
torian of the King of France,’ they only took from me my 
pension. They knew I must travel by post, and that a title 
was less weighty for the horses than a pension of six thousand 
livres; so they lightened me of that, and I come unpensioned 
to your majesty.” 

This little comedy was too clear to escape the king, but 
he seemed not to understand it. A shadow fell upon his 
brow, and the expression of his face was troubled. He 
wished to worship Voltaire as a noble, exalted genius, and he 
was pained to find him a pitiful, calculating, common man. 

“You have, then, fallen under the displeasure of my 
brother Louis, of France?” said he. 

“ On the contrary, I am assured that I stand in the high- 
est favor. I am, indeed, honored with a most agreeable and 
flattering commission; and if your majesty allows, I will 
immediately discharge it.” 

“Do so,” said Frederick, smiling. “Lay aside every 
weight, that your wings may waft you into the heaven of 
heavens while at Sans-Souci. You have been relieved of 
your pension, east all your ballast into the scale also.” 

“Sire, the Marquise de Pompadour directed me to pre- 
sent your majesty with her most obedient and submissive 
greetings, and to assure you of her reverence and heart-felt 
devotion.” . 

Frederick quietly drew his tabatiére from his vest-pocket, 
and slowly taking a pinch of snuff, he fixed his burning eyes 


3874 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


upon Voltaire’s smiling and expectant face; then said, with 
the most complete indifference, “The Marquise de Pompa- 
dour. Who is she? I do not know her!” 

Voltaire looked at the king astonished and questioning. 

Frederick did not remark this, but went on quietly: 
“Have you no other greetings for me? Have none of the 
great spirits, in which Paris is so rich, remembered me?” 

“T shall be careful not to mention any other greetings. 
All the so-called great spirits appear so small in the presence 
of your exalted majesty, I fear you will not acknowledge 
them.” 

“ Not so,” said Frederick; “I gladly recognize all that is 
really great and worthy of renown. Voltaire will never 
find a more enthusiastic admirer than I am.” 

“ Ah, sire, these words are a balsam which I will lay upon 
my breast, lacerated by the wild outcries of my critics.” 

“So the critics have been giving you trouble?” said 
Frederick. 

“Yes, sire,” said Voltaire, with the passionate scorn so 
peculiar to him; “they have bored their insatiable and pois- 
onous teeth into my flesh. They are.so miserable and so 
pitiful, that I seem to myself miserable and pitiful as their 
victim, and in all humility I will ask your majesty, if such 
hounds are allowed to howl unpunished, would it not be 
better for Voltaire to creep into some den, and acknowledge 
the wild beasts of the forests as his brothers—perhaps they 
might regard his verses as melodious barkings and howl- 
ings?” 

“Still the same boisterous hot-head, the Orlando Furio- 
so,” cried the king, laughing heartily. “Is your skin so 
tender still that the needles of the little critics disturb you, 
and to gratify their malice will you become a mule? If you 
are driven to abandon the Muses, friend, who will have the 
hardihood to stand by them? No, no! do not follow in the 
footsteps of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; do not 
‘visit the sins of the fathers upon the children unto the third 
and fourth generation;’ do not make the public of our day, 
and of the next century, suffer for the erimes of a few pitiful 
critics. The persecutions and slanders of the envious are 
the tribute great merit must always pay to the world at large. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 375 


Let them rail on, but do not believe that the nations and the 
future will be duped by them. Utterly disregarding the 
criticisms of the so-called masters of art, we of this century 
admire and wonder at the chefs-d’ceuvre of Greece and 
Rome. The mad cry of schines does not obscure the fame 
of Demosthenes; and in spite of Lucian, Cesar is, and will 
ever remain, the greatest man the world has ever produced. 
I guarantee that after your death you will be canonized, 
worshipped. I humbly entreat you not to hasten the time, 
but be content to have the apotheosis in your pocket, and to 
be honored by all those who are too exalted to be envious or 
prejudiced. I, Frederick, stand foremost in the ranks.” * 

“Why cannot the whole world be present to hear the 
words of a king whom I am proud, from this day onward, to 
call my king?” cried Voltaire, passionately. “Sire, I love 
you ardently! I believe the gods made us for each other. 
I have long loved you tenderly! I have been angry with you, 
but I have forgiven you all,and I love you to madness! There 
was never a weaker, frailer body than mine, but my soul is 
strong! I dare to say I love you as much as I admire you! ¢ 
Verily, I hold this to be as great a conquest as the five other 
victories your majesty has achieved, and for which the world 
worships you. From this day I will be like your faithful 
hound; I will lie at your feet, even though you should spurn 
me, and declare that you will not be my master and lord. 
I will still return. Your threshold shall be my home, and 
I will be content with the crumbs which fall from your 
table. My fortune and my happiness shall consist in loving 
you!” 

“T will not put your love to so hard a proof,” said the 
king, smiling. “I dare hope to provide you with a more 
durable dwelling. I promise you shall not be like Lazarus, 
ees upon crumbs. You shall be the rich man dispensing 
them. 

Here was a sort of promise and assurance which banished 
in some degree the nervous anxiety and distrust of Voltaire, 
and his countenance once more beamed with joy. He sup- 
pressed his satisfaction, however, instantly. He did- not 


* The king’s own words.—C£uvres Posthumes, 
t Voltaire’s own words. 


376 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, - 


wish to betray to the observant eye of Frederick his selfish 
and miserly nature, and assumed at once a melancholy look. 

“ Sire,” said he, “I do not resemble Lazarus; and if your 
majesty does not possess the miraculous power of the young 
rabbi, Jesus Christus, I fear you will soon have to bury me. 
But I am as true a believer.as any Jew. I trust fully to the 
magic power of your hand. Was not your marvellous touch 
sufficient to place beautiful Silesia, a gem of the first water, 
in the crown of Prussia?—to awaken spirits, sleeping almost 
the sleep of death, and to call into life on these barbarous 
northern steppes the blossoms of education and refinement? 
I believe in the miracles of the Solomon of the North, and I 
am willing to give my testimony to the whole world.” 

“ Nevertheless, if the French cock crows, you will betray 
me three times,” said the king. “I know you, Voltaire, and 
I know when you are enraged, nothing is sacred. I fear that 
here, as elsewhere, you will find provocations. But now, 
before all other things, what have you brought me? What 
gift has your muse produced for the poor philosopher of 
Sans-Souci? I will not believe that you come with empty 
hands, and that the Homer of France has broken his lyre.” 

“No, sire, I am not empty-handed! I have brought you 
a present. I believe it to be the best and most beautiful 
production of my muse. For twenty years I have swelled 
with indignation at the tragedy which my good friend, Mas- 
ter Crébillon, made of the most exalted subject of antiquity. 
With the adroit hands of a tailor he stitched up a monkey- 
jacket out of the purple toga, and adorned it with the miser- 
able tawdry trifles of a pitiful lore and pompous Gothie 
verse! Crébillon has written a French Catiline. I, sire, 
have written a Roman Catiline! You shall see, sire, and you 
shall admire! In one of my most wretched, sleepless nights, 
the devil overcame me, and said: ‘Revenge Cicero and 
France! COrébillon has disgraced both. Wash out this stain 
from France. This was a good devil; and even you, 
sire, could not have driven me to work more eagerly than he 
did. Day and night he chained me to my writing-desk! I 
feared I should die of excitement, but the devil held on to 
me, and the spirits of the great Romans stood by my table 
and tore off the absurd and ridiculous masks which Crébillon 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 377 


had laid upon them. They showed me their true, exalted, 
glowing faces, and commanded me to portray them, 
‘that the world at last might feel their majestic beauty, and 
be no longer deceived by the caricatures of Crébillon!’ I 
was obliged to obey, sire! I worked unceasingly, and in 
eight days I had finished! Catiline was born, and I was 
as much exhausted as ever a woman was at the birth of her 
first-born! ” * 

“You do not mean that in eight days you completed the 
tragedy?” said the king. “You mean only that you have 
arranged the plot, and will finish the work here.” 

“ No, sire, I bring you the tragedy complete, and I wrote 
it in eight days. Ah, sire, this is a tragedy you will enjoy! 
You will see no lovelorn Tullia, no infirm and toothless 
Cicero; you will see a fearful picture of Rome, a picture 
at which I myself shuddered. But, sire, when you read it, 
you must swear to me to read it in the same spirit in which 
it is written. I have left to my collegian Crébillon all his 
dramatic plunder; his Catiline is a pure fiction. I have 
written mine, remembering my province as an historian. 
Rome is my heroine; she is the mistress for whom I would 
interest all Europe. I have no other intrigue than Rome’s 
danger; no other material than the mad craft of Catiline, 
the vehemence and heroic virtue of Cicero, the jealousy of 
the Roman Senate, the development of the character of 
Cesar; no other women than that unfortunate who was 
seduced by Catiline because of her gentleness and amiability. 
I know not, sire, if you will shudder at the fourth act, but I, 
the writer, trembled and shuddered. My tragedy is not 
formed upon any model, it is new in nova fert animus 
Truly I know the world will rail at me for this, and the small 
souls gnash their teeth and howl, but my work is written with 
a great soul, and kindred spirits will comprehend me. The 
envious and the pitiful I will at last trample under my feet. 
Jupiter strove with the Titans and overcame them. I am 
no Jupiter, neither are my adversaries Titans.” 

While these words, in an irrepressible and powerful 
stream of eloquence, burst from his lips, Voltaire became an- 
other man. His countenance was imposing in its beauty, 

* This whole speech is from Voltaire. 


378 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


his eyes glowed with the fire of inspiration, an enchanting 
smile played upon his lips, and his bowed and contracted 
form was proudly erect and commanding. The king gazed 
upon him with admiration. At length, Voltaire, panting for 
breath, was silent. Frederick laid his two hands upon his ~ 
shoulders, and looked into the glowing face with an in- 
describable expression of love and tenderness. 

“Now,” said he, “I have again and at last found my 
Voltaire, my proud, inspired king of poets, my Homer, 
crowned with immortality! The might of genius has torn 
away the mantle of the courtier, and in place of pitiful, 
pliant, humble words, I hear again the melodious, flashing, 
eloquent speech of my royal poet! Welcome, Voltaire, wel- 
come to Sans-Souci, whose poor philosopher is but king of 
men, while the spirits are subject unto you! Ah, my all- 
powerful king and master, be gracious! You possess a won- 
drous realm, give me at least a small province in your king- 
dom.” 

“Sire, you mock at me,” cried Voltaire. “I have written 
Cesar and Cicero for the theatre. You, however, exhibit on 
the stage of the world the two greatest men of the greatest 
century, combined in your own person. I have come to gaze 
upon this wonder; it is a far loftier drama than mine, and 
will be surely more nobly represented.* Your majesty rep- 
resents what you truly are, but where shall I find actors to 
fill the réle of Ceesar, Cicero, and Catiline; how shall I 
change the pitiful souls of the cowlisse into great men; make 
noble Romans out of these small pasteboard heroes of the 
mode? I could find no actors for my tragedy in Paris, and it 
shall never be unworthily represented! ” 

“We will bring it upon the stage here,” said Frederick. 
“Yes, truly, this new and great work shall announce, like 
a flaming comet, Voltaire’s arrival in Berlin. At the same 
moment in which the Berlinese see that you are at last 
amongst them, shall they acknowledge that you are worthy 
to be honored and worshipped. In four weeks, Voltaire, 
shall your new tragedy be given in my palace.” 

“Has your majesty, then, a French company, and such 
a one as may dare to represent my Catiline?” 

* Voltaire’s own words. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 379 


“ For the love of Voltaire will all my courtiers, and even 
my sister, become actors; and though a Cicero failed you in 
Paris, in Berlin we will surely find you one. Have we not 
Voltaire who can take that réle. If no reliable director 
could be found in Paris, I give you permission to select 
from my court circle those you consider most talented and 
most capable as actors, and you can study their parts with 
them—I myself alone excepted. Ten years ago I wished to 
have your ‘ Death of Cesar’ given at Rheinsberg, and I had 
selected a réle; just then the Emperor of Germany died, 
and fate called me out upon the great theatre of the world, 
where I have since then tried to play my part worthily, and I 
must consecrate to this all my strength and ability. I can 
play no other part! The two réles might make a rare con- 
fusion, and strange results might follow should the King of 
Prussia of this morning be changed to the Cicero of the 
evening, utter a fulminating speech against tyrants, and call 
upon the noble Romans to defend their rights; while this 
same King of Prussia is a small tyrant, and his subjects are 
more like pitiful slaves than heroic Romans. I must, there- 
fore, confine myself to the narrow boundaries of a spectator, 
and applaud you as heartily in your character of Cicero as 
I applaud you in that of the great Voltaire.” 

“And is this indeed your intention, sire? My poor 
tragedy lies in my writing-desk, seemingly dead; will you 
awaken it to life and light?” 

“Tt shall be given in two months, and you shall con- 
duct it.” 

Voltaire’s countenance darkened; his gay smile disap- 
peared, and lines of selfishness and covetousness clouded the 
brow of the great poet. 

“Tn two months, sire!” said he, shaking his head. “I 
fear I shall not be here. I have only come to sun myself for 
a few happy days in your presence.” 

“ And then?” said Frederick, interrupting him. 

“Then I must fulfil one of the darling dreams of my 
whole life. I must go to Italy, to the holy city of Rome, and 
kneel upon the graves of Cicero and Cesar. I must see St. 
Peter’s, the Venus de Medici, and the pope.” 

“You will never go to Rome,” said Frederick. “The 


380 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Holy Father will not have the happiness of converting the 
blasphemous Saul into the pious and believing Paul. You 
will remain in Berlin; if you do not yield willingly, I must 
compel you to yield. J will make you my subject; I will 
bind you with orders and titles; I will compel you to accept 
a salary from me; and then, should they seek to ravish you 
from me, I will have a right to withhold you from all the po- 
tentates of the world.” | 

Voltaire’s face was again radiant. “ Ah! sire, no power 
or chains will be necessary to bind me here; your majesty’s 
command alone would suffice.” 

“ And your duty! My gentleman of the bedchamber dare 
not withdraw himself for a single day without my permission. 
I make you gentleman of the bedchamber. I lay the ribbon 
of my order, ‘pour le mérite, around your neck, and that 
I may always have a rope around you, and make you com- 
pletely my prisoner, I give you an apartment in my palace 
at Potsdam; and that you may not feel yourself a hermit, 
you will have every day six covers laid for your friends; and 
to mock you with the appearance of liberty, you shall have 
your own equipage and servants, who will obey you in all 
things with one exception—if you order your valet to pack 
up your effects, and your coachman to take the road to Paris, 
they will disobey.” 

Voltaire heard the words of the king with breathless at- 
tention. Sullen suspicion and discontent were written on 
his face. This did not escape the king; he understood the 
cause, but he said nothing. Voltaire exhausted himself in 
words of joy and gratitude, but they had not the ring of 
truth, and the joy which his lips expressed found no echo 
in his face. 

“T have but one other thing to add,” said Frederick, at 
last. “Can your greatness pardon a poor earthworm, if he 
dare speak in your presence of so common and villanous a 
thing as money?” 

Voltaire’s eyes sparkled; the subject of conversation did 
not seem disagreeable to him. 

“You have relinquished a pension of six thousand 
livres in France. It is but just that you receive full com- 
pensation. Your great spirit is certainly above all earthly 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 381 


considerations, but our fleshy existence has its rights. So 
long as you are with me, you shall not be troubled by even 
a shadow of privation. You will therefore receive a salary 
of five thousand thalers from me. Your lodging and your 
table cost you nothing, and I think you can be very comfort- 
able.” 

_ Voltaire’s heart bounded for joy, but he forced himself 
to seem calm and indifferent. 

“Your majesty has forgotten an important matter,” said 
he. “You have named lodging and food, but you say noth- 
ing of light and fire. I am an old man, and cannot produce 
them myself.” 

“Truly said—I find it quite in order that the great free- 
thinker and poet of this century is troubled for the light 
which should illuminate him. You shall have twelve pounds 
of wax-lights every month; I think this will be sufficient for 
your purposes. As for the other little necessities of life, have 
the goodness to apply to the castellan of the castle. On the 
first day of every month he will supply them regularly. The 
contract is made; you will remain with me?” 

“T remain, sire !—not for the title, or the pension, or the 
order—I remain with you, because I love you. My heart 
offers up to you the dream of my life, my journey to Italy. 
Oh, I wish I could make greater, more dangerous sacrifices! 
I wish I could find a means to prove my love, my adoration, 
my worship! ” 

The king laid his hand softly on Voltaire’s shoulder, and 
looked earnestly in his eyes. 

“Be as good a man as you are a great poet. That is the 
most beautiful offering you can bring me.” 

“Ah! I see,” said Voltaire, enraged; “some one has 
slandered me. Your majesty has opened your ears to my 
enemies, and already their hellish poison has reached your 
heart. As they cannot destroy Voltaire the poet, they seize 
upon Voltaire the man, and slander his character because 
they cannot obscure his fame. I will advance to meet them 
with an open visor and without a shield. From their place 
of ambush, with their poisoned arrows, let them slay me. 
It is better to die than to be suspected and contemned by my 
great and worshipped king.” 


382 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“See, now, what curious creatures you poets are!” said 
Frederick; “always in wild tumult and agitation; either 
storming heaven or hell; contending with demons, or revel- 
ling with angels! You have no daily quiet, patience, and 
perseverance. If you see a man who tells you he is plant- 
ing potatoes, you do not believe him—you convince your- 
self he is sowing dragons’ teeth to raise an army to contend 
against you. If you meet one of your fellows with a par- 
ticularly quiet aspect, you are sure you can read curses 
against you upon his lip. When one begs you to be good, you 
look upon it as an accusation. No, no, my poet! no one has 
poured the poison of slander into my ears—no one has ac- 
cused you to me. I am, moreover, accustomed to form my 
own conclusions, and the opinions of others have but little 
weight with me.” 

“But your majesty is pleased to lend your ears to my 
enemies,” said Voltaire, sullenly; “ exactly those who attack 
me most virulently receive the highest honors at the hands 
of your majesty. You are as cruel with me as a beautiful 
and ravishing coquette. So soon as by a love-glance you 
have made me the happiest of men, you turn away with cold 
contempt, and smile alluringly upon my rivals. I have yet 
two dagger-strokes in my heart, which cause me death-agony. 
If your majesty would make me truly happy, you must cure 
the wounds with your own hands.” 

“T will, if it is possible,” said the king, gravely. “ Let us 
hear of what you complain.” 

“Sire, your majesty has made Fréron your correspondent 
in Paris—Fréron, my most bitter enemy, my irreconcil- 
able adversary. But it is not because he is my foe that I 
entreat you to dismiss him; you will not think so pitifully of 
me as to suppose that this is the reason I entreat you to dis- 
miss him from your service. My personal dislike will not 
make me blind to the worth of Fréron as a writer. No, 
sire, Fréron is not worthy of your favor; he is an openly dis- 
honored scoundrel, who has committed more than one com- 
mon fraud. You may imagine what an excitement it pro- 
duced in Paris when it was known that you had honored this 
scamp with a position which should be filled by a man of 
wisdom and integrity. Fréron is only my enemy because, 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 383 


in spite of all entreaties, I have closed my house upon him. 
I took this step for reasons which should have closed the 
doors of every respectable house against him.* Sire, I im- 
plore you, do not let the world believe for a single day longer 
that Fréron is your correspondent. Dismiss him at once 
from your service.” 

The king did not reply for a few moments; he walked 
backward and forward several times, then stood quietly be- 
fore Voltaire. The expression of his eye was stern. 

“T sacrifice Fréron to you,” said he, “because I will 
deny you nothing on this, the day of your arrival; but I re- 
peat to you what I said before, ‘be not only a great poet, 
be also a good man.’ ” 

Voltaire shook his head, sadly. “Sire,” said he, “in 
your eyes I am not a great poet, only un soleil couchant. 
Remember Arnaud, my pupil, whom I sent to you!” 

“ Aha!” cried the king, laughing, “ you have, then, read 
my little poem to Arnaud?” 

“Sire, I have read it, and that was the second dagger- 
stroke which I received on this journey, to which my loving 
heart forced my weak and shrinking body; I felt that I must 
see you once more before I died. Yes, I have read this ter- 
rible poem, and the lines have burned into my heart these 
cruel words: 

‘Déja sans étre téméraire, 
Prenant votre vol jusqu’aux cieux, 
Vous pouvez égaler Voltaire, 

Et prés de Virgile et d’Homére. 
Jouir de vos succés heureux, 
Déja l’Apollon de la France, 
S’achemine 4 sa décadence, 
Venez briller 4 votre tour, 
Elevez vous s’il brille encore; 
Ainsi le couchant d’un beau jour, 
Promét une plus belle aurore.’” ¢ 


“Yes,” said the king, as Voltaire ceased declaiming, and 
stood in rather a tragic attitude before him—“ yes, I confess 
that a sensitive nature like yours might find a thorn in these 


* Voltaire’s own words. 
+ Supplément des CZuvres Posthumes. 


884 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


innocent rhymes. My only intention was to give to the little 
Arnaud a few roses which he might weave into a wreath of 
fame. It seems I fulfilled my purpose poorly; it was high 
time that Voltaire should come to teach me to make better 
verses. See, I confess my injustice, and I allow you to punish 
me by writing a poem against me, which shall be published 
as extensively as my little verse to Arnaud.” : 

“Does your majesty promise me this little revenge in 
earnest?” 

“T promise it; give me your poem as soon as it is ready; 
it shall be published in ‘ Formey’s Journal.’ ” 

“ Sire, it is ready: hear it now.* 


* Quel diable de Mare Antoine! 
Et quelle malice est le votre, 
Vous égratinez d’une main 
Lorsque vous caressez de l’autre.’” 


“ Ah,” said Frederick, “ what a beautiful quatrain Mon- 
sieur Arouet has made.” 

“ Arouet!” said Voltaire, astonished. 

“ Well, now, you would not surely wish me to believe that 
this little stinging, pitiful rhyme, was written by the great 
Voltaire. No, no! this is the work of the young Arouet, 
and we will have it published with his signature.” 

Voltaire fixed his great eyes for a moment angrily upon 
the handsome face of the king, then bowed his head and 
looked down thoughtfully. There was a pause, and his face 
assumed a noble expression—he was again the great poet. 

“Sire,” said he, softly, “I will not have this poem pub- 
lished. You are right, Voltaire does not acknowledge it. 
This poor verse was written by Arouet, or the ‘old Adam,’ 
who often strikes the poet Voltaire slyly in the back. But 
you, sire, who have already won five battles, and who find a 
few morning hours sufficient to govern a great kingdom with 
wisdom, consideration, and love; you, by one kindly glance 
of your eye, will be able to banish the old Adam, and call 
heavenly hymns of love and praise from the lips of Vol- 
taire.” 

“T shall be content with hymns of love. I will spare you 


* Giuvres Completes de Voltaire. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 885 


all eulogy,” cried Frederick, giving his hand warmly to 
Voltaire. 

At the close of the first day at Sans-Souci, the new gentle- 
man of the bedchamber returned to Potsdam, adorned with 
the order “ Pour le mérite,” and a written assurance from 
the king of a pension of five thousand thalers in his pocket. 

Two richly-liveried servants received him at the gate of 
the palace; one of them held a silver candelabrum, in which 
five wax-lights were burning. Voltaire leaned, exhausted 
and groaning, upon the arm of the other, who almost carried 
him into his apartment. Voltaire ordered the servant to 
place the lights on the table, and to wait in the anteroom for 
further orders. 

Scarcely had the servant left the room when Voltaire, 
who had thrown himself, as if perfectly exhausted, in the 
arm-chair, sprang up actively and hastened to the table upon 
which the candelabrum stood; raising himself on tiptoe, he 
blew out three of the lights. 

“Two are enough,” said he, with a grimace. “I am to 
receive twelve pounds of wax-lights a month. I will be very 
economical, and out of the proceeds of this self-denial I can 
sealize a little pin-money for my niece, Denis.” He took the 
zandelabrum and entered his study. 

It was curious to look upon this lonely, wrinkled, decrepit 
old man, in the richly-furnished but half-obscure room; the 
dull light illuminated his malicious but smiling face; here 
and there as he advanced it flashed upon the gilding, or was 
reflected in a mirror, while behind him the gloom of night 
seemed to have thrown an impenetrable veil. 

Voltaire seated himself at his desk and wrote to his niece, 
Madame Denis: “I have bound myself with all legal form 
to the King of Prussia. My marriage with him is deter- 
mined upon. Will it be happy? I do not know. I could 
no longer postpone the decisive yes. After coquetting for 
sO many years, a wedding was the necessary consequence. 
How my heart beat at the altar! How could I have sup- 
posed, seven months ago, when we arranged our little house 
in Paris, that I should be to-day three hundred leagues from 
home in another man’s house, and this other a ruler!” * 

* QZuvres Completés, 301. 


386 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


At the same moment wrote Frederick, King of Prussia, to 
Algarotti: “ Voltaire is here; he has of late, as you know, 
been guilty of an act unworthy of him. He deserves to be 
branded upon Parnassus. It is a shame that so base a soul 
should be united to so exalted a genius. Of all this, how- 
ever, I shall take no notice; he is necessary to me in my 
study of the French language. One can learn beautiful 
things from an evil-doer. I must learn his French. I have 
nothing to do with his morals. He unites in himself the 
strangest opposites. The world worships his genius and de- 
spises his character.” * 


CHAPTER III. 


THE CONFIDENCE-TABLE. 


“AND now, friends, let us be joyful, and forget all the 
cares and sorrows of the world,” cried the king, with a ring- 
ing laugh; “raise your glasses and strike them merrily. 
Long life to mirth, to jest, to joy!” 

The glasses were raised, and as they met they rang out 
cheerily; they were pressed to the lips and emptied at a 
draught; the guests then seated themselves silently at the 
table. Frederick glanced at the circle of his friends who sat 
with him at the round table; his eyes dwelt searchingly upon 
every laughing face, then turned to the garden of Sans- 
Souci, which sent its perfumed breath, its song of birds, 
its evening breeze, through the open doors and windows, 
while the moon, rising in cloudless majesty, shone down 
upon them and rivalled with her silver rays the myriads of 
wax-lights which glittered in the crystal chandeliers. 

“This is a glorious evening,” said the king, “ and we will 
enjoy it gloriously.” 

He ordered the servants to close the doors, place the des- 
sert and champagne upon the table, and leave the room. 


* Quvres de Frédéric le Grand. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 3887 


Noiselessly and silently this command was fulfilled. Fred- 
erick then greeted each one of his guests with a kindly nod. 

“Welcome, thrice welcome are you all!” said he. “I 
have longed to have you all together, and now, at last, you 
are here. There sits Voltaire, whose divine Emile was de- 
livered first of a book, then of a child, and then released 
from life before he was free to come to Berlin. There is 
Algarotti, the swan of Italy, who spreads his wings and 
would gladly fly to the land of oranges and myrtles. There 
is La Mettrie, who only remains here because he is con- 
vinced that my Cape wine is pure, and my pdtés de foie gras 
truly from Strasbourg. There is D’Argens, who sought 
safety in Prussia because in every other land in Europe there 
are sweethearts waiting and sighing for him, to whom he 
has sworn a thousand oaths of constancy. There is Bastiani, 
who only remains with us while the Silesian. dames, who 
have frankly confessed their sins to him and been absolved, 
find time and opportunity to commit other peccadilloes, 
which they will do zealously, in order to confess them once 
more to the handsome Abbé Bastiani. And lastly, there is 
my Lord Marshal, the noblest and best of all, whose pres- 
ence we owe to the firmness of his political principles and the 
misfortunes of the house of Stuart.” 

“ And there is the Solomon of the North,” cried Voltaire 
— “there is Frederick, the youngest of us all, and the wisest 
—the philosopher of Sans-Souci. There sits Apollo, son of 
the gods, who has descended from Olympus to be our king.” 

“Tet us not speak of kings,” said Frederick. “ When 
the sun goes down there is no king at Sans-Souci; he leaves 
the house and retires into another castle, God only knows 
where. We are all equal and wholly sans géne. At this 
table, there are no distinctions; we are seven friends, who 
laugh and chat freely with each other; or, if you prefer it, 
seven wise men.” 

“This is then the Confidence-Table,” said Voltaire, “ of 
which D’Argens has so often spoken to me, and which has 
seemed to me like the Round-Table of King Arthur. Long 
live the Confidence-Table! ” 

“Tt shall live,” cried the king, “and we will each one 
honor this, ae first sitting, by showing our confidence in 


388 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


each other. Every one shall relate something piquant and 
strange of his past life, some lively anecdote, or some sweeé 
little mystery which we dare trust to our friends, but not 
to our wives. The oldest begins first.” 

“T am afraid I am that,” said Voltaire, “but your maj- 
esty must confess that my heart has neither white hair nor 
wrinkles. Old age is a terrible old woman who slides quiet- 
ly, grinning and threatening, behind every man, and watches 
the moment when she dares lay upon him the mask of weary 
years through which he has lived and suffered. She has, 
alas! fastened her wrinkled mask upon my face, but my 
heart is young and green, and if the women were not so 
short-sighted as to look only upon my outward visage, if 
they would condescend to look within, they would no longer 
call me the old Voltaire, but would love and adore me, even 
as they did in my youth.” 

“Listen well, friends, he will no doubt tell us of some 
duchess who placed him upon an altar and bowed down and 
worshipped him.” 

“ No, sire, I will tell you of an injury, the bitterest I ever 
experienced, and which I can never forget.” 

“ As if he had ever forgotten an injury, unless he had 
revenged it threefold!” cried D’Argens. 

“ And chopped up his enemy for pastry and eaten him,” 
said La Mettrie. 

“Truly, if I should eat all my enemies, I should suffer 
- from an everlasting indigestion, and, in my despair, I might 
fly to La Mettrie for help. It is well known that when you 
suffer from incurable diseases, you seek, at last, counsel of 
the quack.” : 

“You forget that La Mettrie is a regular physician,” 
said the king, with seeming earnestness. 

“On the contrary, he remembered it well,” said La Met- 
trie, smiling. “The best physician is the greatest quack, 
or the most active grave-digger, if you prefer it.” 

“ Silence!” said the king. ‘“ Voltaire has the floor; he 
will tell us of the greatest offence he ever received. Give 
attention.” 

“ Alas! my heart is sad, sire; of all other pain, the pain 
of looking back into the past is the most bitter. I see myself 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 389 


again a young man, the Arouet to whom Ninon de I’Enclos 
gave her library and a pension, and who was confined for 
twenty years to the Bastile because he loved God and the 
king too little, and the charming Marquise de Villiers and 
some other ladies of the court too much. Besides these ex- 
alted ladies, there was a beautiful young maiden whom I 
loved—perhaps because she had one quality which I had 
never remarked in the possession of my more noble mis- 
tresses—she was innocent! Ah, friends, you should have 
seen Phillis, and you would have confessed that no rose-bud 
was lovelier, no lily purer, than she. Phillis was the daugh- 
ter of a gypsy and a mouse-catcher, and danced on the tight- 
rope in the city-gardens.” 

“ Ah, it appears to me the goddess of innocence dances 
always upon the tight-rope in this world,” said the king. 
“T should not be surprised to hear that even your little 
Phillis had a fall.” 

“Sire, she fell, but in my arms; and we swore eternal 
love and constancy. You all know from experience the 
quality and fate of such oaths; they are the kindling-wood 
upon which the fire of love is sustained; but, alas, kindling 
and fire soon burnt out! Who is responsible? Our fire 
burned long; but, think you my Phillis, whom I had re- 
moved from the tight-rope, and exalted to a dancer upon the 
stage, was so innocent and naive as to believe that our love 
must at last be crowned with marriage! I, however, was a 
republican, and feared all crowns. I declared that Ninon 
de l’Enclos had made me swear never to marry, lest my 
grandchildren should fall in love with me, as hers had done 
with her.” 

“Precaution is praiseworthy,” said La Mettrie. “ The 
devil’s grandmother had also a husband, and her grandsons 
might have fallen in love with her.” 

“ Phillis did not take me for the devil’s grandfather, but 
for the devil himself. She cried, and shrieked, and cast my 
oaths of constancy in my teeth. I did not die of remorse, 
nor she of love, and to prove her constancy, she married a 
rich Duke de Ventadour.” 

“ And you, no doubt, gave away the bride, and swore you 
had never known a purer woman | * 


390 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“No, sire, I was at that time again in the Bastile, and 
left it only as an exile from France. When at last I was 
allowed to return to Paris, I sought out my Duchess de 
Ventadour, my Phillis of former times. I found her a dis- 
tinguished lady; she had forgotten the follies of her youth; 
had forgotten her father, the rope-dancer; her mother, the 
mouse-catcher. She had no remembrance of the young 
Arouet, to whom she had sworn to say only ‘ tu’ and ‘ toi.’ 
Now she was grave and dignified, and ‘Vous, monsieur,’ was 
on her fair lip. Thanks to the heraldry office, she had be- 
come the daughter of a distinguished Spaniard, blessed with 
at least seven ancestors. Phillis gave good dinners, had 
good wine, and the world overlooked her somewhat obscure 
lineage. She was the acknowledged and respected Duchess 
Ventadour. She was still beautiful, but quite deaf; conse- 
quently her voice was loud and coarse, when she believed her- 
self to be whispering. She invited me to read some selec- 
tions from my new work in her saloon, and I was weak 
enough to accept the invitation. I had just completed my 
‘Brutus,’ and burned with ambition to receive the applause 
of the Parisiennes. I commenced to read aloud my tragedy 
of ‘ Brutus’ in the saloon of the duchess, surrounded by a 
_eirele of distinguished nobles, eminent in knowledge and 
art. I was listened to in breathless attention. In the 
deep silence which surrounded me, in the glowing eyes of 
my audience, in the murmurs of applause which greeted me, 
I saw that I was still Voltaire, and that the hangman’s hands, 
which had burned my ‘ Lettres Philosophiques, had not de- 
stroyed my fame or extinguished my genius. While I read, 
a servant entered upon tiptoe, to rekindle the fire. The 
Duchess Ventadour sat near the chimney. She whispered, 
or thought she whispered, to her servant. I read a little 
louder to drown her words. I was in the midst of one of the 
grandest scenes of my tragedy. My own heart trembled 
with emotion. Here and there I saw eyes, which were not 
wont to weep, filled with tears, and heard sighs from trem- 
bling lips, accustomed only to laughter and smiles. And 
now I came to the soliloquy of Brutus. He was resolving 
whether he would sacrifice his son’s life to his fatherland. 
There was a solemn pause, and now, in the midst of the pro- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 391 


found silence, the Duchess Ventadour in a shrill voice, which 
she believed to be inaudible, said to her servant: ‘Do not 
fail to serve mustard with the pig’s head!’” 

A peal of laughter interrupted Voltaire, in which he 
reluctantly joined, being completely carried away by the 
general mirth. 

“That was indeed very piquant, and I think you must 
have been greatly encouraged.” 

“Did you eat of the pig’s head, or were your teeth on 
edge?” : 

“No, they were sharp enough to bite, and I bit! In my 
first rage I closed my book, and cried out: ‘ Madame——! 
Well! as you have a pig’s head, you do not require that 
Brutus should offer up the head of his son!’ I was on the 
point of leaving the room, but the poor duchess, who was 
just beginning to comprehend her unfortunate interruption, 
hastened after me, and entreated me so earnestly to remain 
and read further, that I consented. I remained and read, 
but not from ‘ Brutus.’ My rage made me, for the moment, 
an improvisator. Seated near to the duchess, surrounded by 
the proud and hypocritical nobles, who acknowledged Phillis 
only because she had a fine house and gave good dinners, I 
improvised a poem which recalled to the grand duchess and 
her satellites the early days of the fair Phillis, and brought 
the laugh on my side. My poer was called ‘ Le tu et le vous.’ 
Now, gentlemen, this is the story of my ‘ Brutus’ and the 
pig’s head.” 

“T acknowledge that it is a good story. It will be diffi- 
cult for you, D’Argens, to relate so good a one,” said the 
king. 

“T dare not make the attempt, sire. Voltaire was ever 
the child of good fortune, and his life and adventures have 
been extraordinary, while I was near sharing the common 
fate of younger sons. I was destined for the priesthood.” 

“That’s a droll idea, indeed!” said Frederick. “ D’Ar- 
gens, who believes in nothing, intended for a priest! How 
did you escape this danger?” 

“Through the example of my dear brother, who was of a 
passionate piety, and became in the school of the Jesuits so 
complete a fanatic and bigot that he thundered out his fierce 


— 


392 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


tirades against all earthly joys and pastimes, no matter how 
innocent they were. To resemble the holy Xavier and the 
sanctified and childlike Alois Gonzago, was his highest ideal. 
In the extremity of his piety and prudery he slipped into the 
art-gallery of our eldest brother and destroyed Titian’s most 
splendid paintings and the glorious statues of the olden 
time. He gloried in this act, and called it a holy offering to 
virtue. He could not understand that it was vandalism. 
Our family had serious fears for the intellect of this’ poor 
young saint, maddened by the fanaticism of the Jesuits. 
They sought counsel of the oldest and wisest of our house, 
the Bishop of Bannes. After thinking awhile, the bishop 
said: ‘I will soon cure the young man of this folly; I will 
make him a priest.’ ” 

“Truly, your uncle, the bishop, was a wise man; he drove 
out folly with folly. He knew well that no one had less 
reverence for the churches than those who have built them, 
and are their priests.” 

“That was the opinion of my very worthy uncle. He said, 
with a sly laugh: ‘ When he has heard a few confessions, he 
will understand the ways of the world better!’ The bishop 
was right. My brother was consecrated. In a short time he 
became very tolerant and considerate, as a man and as a 
father confessor.” 

“ But you have not told us, marquis, how the fanaticism 
of your brother liberated you from the tonsure?” said the 
king. 

“My father found I would commence my priestly life 
with as much intolerance as my brother had done. He 
therefore proposed to me to consecrate myself to the world, 
- and, instead of praying in the church, to fight for the 
cross. The thought pleased me, and I became a Knight of 
Malta.” 

' “Your first deed of arms was, without doubt, to seat 
yourself and write your ‘ Lettres Juives,” said the king; 
“those inspiring letters in which the knight of the cross 
mocks at Christianity and casts his glove as a challenge to 
revealed religion.” 

“No, sire, I began my knightly course by entering the 
land of heathen and idolators, to see if a man could be 


a 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 393 


truly happy and contented in a land where there was neither 
Messiah nor crucifix—I went to Turkey.” 

“But you carried your talisman with you?” said the 
Abbé Bastiani—* you wore the cross upon your mantle?” 

“ A remark worthy of our pious abbé,” said Frederick; 
“no one knows better the protecting power of the cross than 
the priest who founded it. Tell us, marquis, did your talis- 
man protect you? Did you become an apostate to the true 
faith?” 

“ Sire, I wished first to see their temples and their mode 
of worship, before I decided whether I would be an unbe- 
lieving believer or a believing unbeliever.” 

“T think,” said Voltaire, “you have never been a be- 
liever, or made a convert; you have made nothing but debts.” 

“ That is, perhaps, because I am not a great writer, and do 
not understand usury and speculation,” said D’Argens, quiet- 
ly. “ Besides, no courtesan made me her heir, and no mis- 
tress obtained me a pension! ” 

“Look now,” said the king, “ our good marquis is learn- 
ing from you, Voltaire; he is learning to scratch and bite.” 

“Yes,” said Voltaire; “there are creatures whom all 
men imitate, even in their vile passions and habits; perhaps 
they take them for virtues.” 

The face of the marquis was suffused; he rose angrily, 
and was about to answer, but the king laid his hand upon 
his arm. “Do not reply to him; you know that our great 
poet changes himself sometimes into a wicked tiger, and does 
not understand the courtly language of men. Do not re- 
gard him, but go on with your story.” 

The king drew back his hand suddenly, and, seemingly 
by accident, touched the silver salt-cellar; it fell and scat- 
tered the salt upon the table. The marquis uttered a light 
cry, and turned pale. 

“ Alas!” cried the king, with well-affected horror, “ what 
a misfortune! Quick, quick, my friends! let us use an anti- 
dote against the wiles of the demons, which our good mar- 
quis maintains springs always from an overturned salt-cellar. 
Quick, quick! take each of you a pinch of salt, and throw it 
upon the burners of the chandeliers; listen how it crackles 
and splutters! These are the evil spirits in hell-fire, are 


394 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


they not, marquis? Now let each one take another pinch, 
and throw it, laughing merrily, over the left shoulder. You, 
Voltaire, take the largest portion, and cast it from you; I 
think you have always too much salt, and your most beauti- 
ful poems are thereby made unpalatable.” 

“ Ah, sire, you speak of the salt of my wit. No one re- 
members that the tears which have bathed my face have 
fallen upon my lips, and become crystallized into biting sar- 
casms. Only the wretched and sorely tried are sharp of wit 
and bitter of speech.” 

“ Not so,” said La Mettrie; “these things are the conse- 
quence of bad digestion. This machine is not acted upon 
by what you poets call spirit, and I call brain; it reacts upon 
itself. When a man is melancholy, it comes from his stom- 
ach. To be gay and cheery, to have your spirits clear and 
fresh, you have nothing more to do than to eat heartily and 
have a good digestion. Moliére could not have written such 
glorious comedies if he had fed upon sour krout and old 
peas, instead of the woodcock, grouse, and truffles which fell 
to him from King Louis’s table. Man is only a machine, 
nothing more.” 

“La Mettrie, I will give you to-morrow nothing but 
grouse and truffles to eat: woe to you, then, if the day after 
you do not write me just such a comedy as Moliére’s! But 
we entirely forget that the marquis owes us the conclusion 
of his story; we left him a Knight of Malta, and we cannot 
abandon him in this position; that would be to condemn him 
to piety and virtue. Go on, dear marquis, we have thrown 
the salt and banished the demons—go on, then, with your 
history.” 

“ Well,” said the marquis, “to relate it is less dangerous 
than to live through it. I must confess, however, that the 
perils of life have also their charms. I wished, as I had the 
honor to say to you, to witness a religious service in the 
great mosque at Constantinople, and by my prayers, sup- 
ported by a handful of gold pieces, I succeeded in convincing 
the Turk, who had the care of the key to the superb Sophia, 
that it was not an unpardonable sin to allow an unbelieving 
Christian to witness the holy worship of an unbelieving 
Mussulman. Indeed, he risked nothing but the bastinado; 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 395 


while I, if discovered, would be given over to the hangman, 
and could only escape my fate by becoming a Mussulman.” 

“ What an earnest and profitable Christian Holy Mother 
Church would thus have lost in the author of Les Lettres 
Juives !” said Frederick, laughing. 

“ But what an exquisite harem the city of Constantinople 
would have won!” cried Voltaire. 

“ What a happiness for you, my Lord Marshal, that your 
beautiful Mohammedan was not then born; the marquis 
would without doubt have bought her from you!” 

“Tf Zuleima will allow herself to be bought, there will 
be nothing to pay,” said Lord Marshal, with a soft smile. 

“You are right, my lord,” said the marquis, with a 
meaning side glance at Voltaire, “you are right; nothing 
is more despicable than the friendship which can be pur- 
chased.” 

“You succeeded, however, in bribing the good Mussul- 
man,” said Algarotti, “and enjoyed the unheard-of happiness 
of witnessing their worship.” 

“Yes, the night before a grand féte, my Turk led me 
to the mosque, and hid me behind a great picture which was 
placed before one of the doors of the tribune. This was 
seemingly a safe hiding-place. The tribune was not used, 
and years had passed since the door had been opened. It 
lay, too, upon the southern side of the mosque, and you know 
that the worshippers of Mohammed must ever turn their 
faces toward Mecca, that is, to the morning sun; I was sure, 
therefore, that none of these pious unbelievers would ever 
look toward me. From my concealment I could with entire 
comfort observe all that passed; but I made my Turk most 
unhappy in the eagerness of my curiosity. I sometimes 
stepped from behind my picture, and leaned a little over the 
railing. My poor Mussulman entreated me with such a 
piteous mien, and pointed to the soles of his feet with such 
anguish, that I was forced to take pity on him and withdraw 
into my concealment. But at last, in spite of the solem- 
nities, and my own ardent piety, the animal was roused with- 
in and overcame me. I was hungry! and as I had expected 
this result, I had placed a good bottle of wine and some ham 
and fresh bread in my pocket. I now took them out, spread 


396 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


my treasures upon the floor, and began to breakfast. The 
Turk looked at me with horror, and he would not have 
been surprised if the roof of the holy mosque had fallen upon 
the Christian hound who dared to desecrate it by drinking 
wine and eating ham within its precincts, both of which were 
strictly forbidden by the prophet. But the roof did not fall, 
not even when I forced my Mussulman to eat ham and drink 
wine with me, by threatening to show myself openly if he 
refused. He commenced his unholy meal with dark frowns 
and threatening glances, ever looking up, as if he feared the 
sword of the prophet would cleave him asunder. Soon, 
however, he familiarized himself with his sin, and forgot the 
holy ceremonies which were being solemnized. When the 
service was over, and all others had left the mosque, he prayed 
me to wait yet a little longer, and as the best of friends, 
we finished the rest of my bacon and drank the last drop of 
my wine to the health of the prophet, laughing merrily over 
the dangers we had escaped. As at last we were about to 
separate, my good Turk was sad and thoughtful, and he con- 
fessed to me that he had the most glowing desire to become a 
Christian. The bacon and wine had refreshed him marvel- 
lously, and he was enthusiastic for a religion which offered 
such glorious food, not only for the soul, but for the hody. 
I was too good a Christian not to encourage his holy desires. 
I took him into my service, and when we had left Turkey, 
and found ourselves on Christian soil, my Mussulman grati- 
fied the thirst of his soul, and became a son of Holy Mother 
Chureh, and felt no remorse of conscience in eating ham and 
drinking wine. So my visit to the holy mosque was rich in 
blessed consequences; it saved a soul, and my wine and my 
ham plucked a man from the hell-fire of unbelief. That is, 
I believe, the only time I ever succeeded in making a prose- 
lyte.” 

“ ‘The salvation of that soul will free you from condemna- 
tion and insure your own eternal happiness. When you 
- come to die, marquis, you dare say, ‘I have not lived in vain, 
I have won a soul to heaven.’ ” 

“Provided,” said Voltaire, “that the bacon with which 
you converted the Turk was not part of one of the beasts 
into which the devils were cast, as is written in the Hely 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 397 


Scriptures. If this was so, then the newly-baked Christian 
has certainly eaten of everlasting damnation.” 

“Let us hope that this is not so,” said Frederick; “ and 
now, my Lord Marshal, it is your turn to give us a piquant 
anecdote; or, if you prefer it, an heroic deed from your life, 
so rich in virtue, magnanimity, truth, and constancy. Ah, 
messieurs, let us now be thoughtful, cast down our eyes, and 
exalt our hearts. A virtuous man is about to speak: truly 
virtue is a holy goddess loved by few, to whom few altars are 
erected, and who has few priests in her service. My Lord 
Marshal is consecrated to her altar; you may well believe 
this when I assure you of it—I, who have been so often de- 
ceived, and often tempted to believe no longer in the exist- 
ence of virtue. My noble Keith has forced me to be ecredu- 
lous. This faith comforts me, and I thank him.” 

With a glance of inexpressible love he gave his hand to 
his friend, who pressed it to his breast. The faces of all 
present were grave, almost stern. The words of the king 
were a reproach, and they felt wounded. Frederick thought 
not of them; he looked alone upon the noble, handsome face 
of Lord Marshal, not remembering that the love and con- 
sideration manifested for him might excite the envy and 
jealousy of his other friends. 

“ Now, my lord, will you commence your uistory, or are 
we too impure and sinful to listen to any of the holy mys- 
teries of your pure life?” 

“ Ah, sire, there are no mysteries in my simple life; it 
lies like an open book before the eyes of my king, and, in- 
deed, to all the world.” 

“Tn that pure book I am sure that all can learn wisdom 
and experience,” said Frederick. “It is a book of rarest 
value, in which every nobleman can learn how to be faithful 
to his king in dire misfortune and to the gates of death. 
Ah, my lord, there are few men like yourself, who can count 
it as imperishable fame to have been condemned to the 
scaffold. The Pretender must, indeed, be a most noble 
prince, as you were willing to give your life for him.” 

“He was my rightful king and lord, and I owed him al- 
legiance. That I was condemned for him, and pardoned, 
and banished from England, I cannot now consider a mis- 


398 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


fortune, as I have thereby enjoyed the great happiness of 
being near your majesty. But you must not think too highly 
of my constancy to ‘ the Pretender;’ it was not pure loyalty, 
and if I carelessly and rashly cast my life upon a wild chance, 
it was because the world had but little value for me. In 
the despair and anguish of my heart I should have called 
Death a welcome friend. Had I been happier I should have 
been less brave.” 

“ And will you tell us, my lord, why you were unhappy?” 

“Sire, mine is a simple little history, such as is daily 
acted out in this weary world. We are all, however, proud 
to think that none have suffered as we have done. There 
are many living hearts covered as with a gravestone, under 
which every earthly happiness is shrouded, but the world 
is ignorant and goes laughing by. My heart has bled in 
secret, and my happiness is a remembrance; my life once 
promised to be bright and clear as the golden morning sun. 
The future beckoned to me with a thousand glorious prom- 
ises and greeted me with winning, magic smiles. I saw a 
young, lovely, innocent, modest maiden, like a spring rose, 
with heaven’s dew still hanging untouched upon its soft 
leaves. I saw and loved; it seemed to me God had sent me in 
her His most wondrous revelation. I loved, I worshipped her. 
She was the daughter of a distinguished French noble. I 
went to Paris, a young and modest man, highly commended 
to many influential and powerful families of the court. We 
met daily; at first with wonder and surprise; then, with deep 
emotion, we heard each other’s voices without daring to speak 
together; and then, at last, I no longer dared to utter a word 
in her presence, because my voice trembled and I could not 
control it. One day, as we sat silently next each other in a 
large assembly, I murmured in low, broken tones: ‘If I 
dared to love you, would you forgive me?’ She did not look 
up, but she said, ‘I should be happy.’ We then sank again. 
into our accustomed silence, only looking from time to time 
into each other’s happy eyes. This lasted sia weeks, sia weeks 
of silent but inexpressible happiness. At last I overcame my 
timidity and made known the sweet mystery of my love. 
I demanded the hand of my Victoire from her father; he 
gave a cheerful consent, and led me to my beloved. I pressed 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 399 


her to my heart, drunk with excess of joy. At this moment 
her grandmother entered with a stern face and scornful 
glance. She asked if I was a Protestant. This fearful 
question waked me from my dream of bliss. In the rapture 
of the last few months I had thought of nothing but my love. 
Love had become my religion, and I needed no other influence 
to lead me to worship God. But this, alas, was not sufi- 
cient! I declared myself a Protestant. Victoire uttered a 
ery of anguish, and sank insensible into her father’s arms. 
Two days afterward I left France. Victoire would not see 
me, and refused my hand. I returned to England, broken- 
hearted, desperate, almost insane. In this delirium of grief 
I joined ‘the Pretender,’ and undertook for him and his 
cause the wildest and most dangerous adventures, which 
ended, at last, in my being captured and condemned to the 
block. This, your majesty, was the only love of my life. 
‘You see I had, indeed, but little to relate.” 

Frederick said nothing, and no one dared to break the 
silence. Even Voltaire repressed the malicious jest which 
played upon his lip, and was forced to content himself with 
a mocking smile. 

“ What were the words that your father spoke when he 
sent you forth as a man into the world? I think you once re- 
peated them to me,” said Frederick. 


“ Quand vos yeux, en naissant, s’ouvraient & la lumieére, 
Chacun vous souriait, mon fils, et vous pleuriez. 
Vivez si bien, qu’un jour, 4 votre derniére heure, 
Chacun verse des pleurs, et qu’on vous voie sourire.” 


“You have fulfilled your father’s wish,” said the king. 
“You have so lived, that you can smile when all others are 
weeping for you, and no man who has loved can forget you. 
I am sure your Victoire will never forget you. Have you 
not seen her since that first parting?” 

“Yes, sire, I have seen her once again, as I came to 
Prussia, after being banished forever from England. Ah, 
sire, that was a happy meeting after twenty years of separa- 
tion. The pain and grief of love were over, but the love 
remained. We confessed this to each other. In the begin- 
ning there was suffering and sorrow, then a sweet, soft re- 


400 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCT; OR, 


membrance of our love, for we had never ceased to think 
upon each other. It seems that to love faithfully and eter- 
nally it is only necessary to love truly and honorably, and 
then to separate. Custom and daily meeting cannot then 
brush the bloom from love’s light wings; its source is in 
heaven, and it returns to the skies and shines forever and in- 
extinguishable a star over our heads. When I looked again 
upon Victoire she had been a long time married, and to the 
world she had, perhaps, ceased to be beautiful. To me she 
will be ever lovely; and as she looked upon me it seemed to 
me that the clouds and shadows had been lifted from my life, 
and my sun was shining clear. But, sire, all this has no in- 
terest for you. How tenderly I loved Victoire you will 
know, when I tell you that the only poem my unpoetical 
brain has ever produced was written for her.” 

“Let us hear it, my lord,” said the king. 

“Tf your majesty commands it, and Voltaire will for- 
give it,” said Lord Marshal. 

“TI forgive it, my lord,” cried Voltaire. “Since I lis- 
tened to you I live in a land of wonders and soft enchant- 
ments, whose existence I have never even guessed, and upon 
whose blooming, perfumed beauty I scarcely dare open my 
unholy eyes. The fairy tales of my dreamy youth seem now 
to be true, and I hear a language which we, poor sons of 
France, living under the regency of the Duke of Orleans, 
have no knowledge of. I entreat you, my lord, let us hear 
your poem.” 

Lord Marshal bowed, and, leaning back in his chair, in a 
full rich voice, he recited the following verses: 

“¢Un trait lancé par caprice 
M’atteignit dans mon printemps; 
J’en porte la cicatrice 
Encore, sous mes cheveux blancs. 
Craignez les maux qu’amour cause, 
Et plaignez un insensé 
Qui n'a point cueilli la rose, 

Et qui l’épine a blessé.’ * 


“ And now,” said Lord Marshal rapidly, wishing to inter- 
rupt all praise and all remark as to his poem; “I have yet 


* Mémoires de la Marquise de Créqui. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 401 


a confession to make, and if you have not laughed over my 
verses, you will surely laugh at what I now state. Out of 
love for my lost mistress, I became a Catholic. I thought 
that the faith, to which my Victoire offered up her love, 
must be the true religion in which all love was grounded. I 
wished to be hers in spirit, in life, and in death. In spirit, in 
truth, I am a Catholic; and now, gentlemen, you may laugh.” 

“Sublime!” whispered Voltaire. 

“No one will smile,” said the king, sternly. “Joy and 
peace to him who is a believer, and can lay his heart upon 
the cross, and feel strengthened and supported by it. He 
will not wander in strange and forbidden paths, as we poor, 
short-sighted mortals often do. Will you tell us the name 
of your beloved mistress, or is that a secret?” 

“Sire, our love was pure and innocent; we dare avow it 
to the whole world. My beloved’s name was Victoire de 
Froulay; she is now Marquise de Créqui.” 

“ Ah, the Marquise de Créqui!” said Voltaire, with ani- 
mation; “one of the wittiest and most celebrated women of 
Paris.” 

“She is still living?” said the king, thoughtfully. 
“would you like to meet her again, my lord?” 

“ Yes, your majesty, for one hour, to say to her that I am 
a Catholic, and that we shall meet in heaven!” 

“T will send you as ambassador to Paris, my lord, and 
you shall bear the marquise my greetings.” * 

“ Your majesty will thus be acting an epigram for George 
of England,” said Voltaire, laughing. “ Two of his noblest 
rebels will be cementing the friendship of France and Prus- 
sia. Lord Tyrconnel, the Irishman, is ambassador from 
France to Prussia, and my Lord Marshal Keith is to be am- 
bassador from Prussia to France. Ah, my lord! how will 
the noble marquise rejoice when her faithful knight shall 
introduce to her his most beautiful possession—the young 
and lovely Mohammedan Zuleima! How happy will Zulei- 
ma be when you point out to her the woman who loved you 
so fondly! She will then know, my lord, that you also once 
had a heart, and have been beloved by a woman.” 

“T will present my little Zuleima to the marquise,” said 

* Lord Marshal went to Paris, as an ambassador from Prussia, in 1751. 


402 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Lord Marshal; “ and, when I tell her that she was a bequest 
of my dear brother, who, at the storming of Oschakow, where 
he commanded as field-marshal, rescued her from the flames, 
she will find it just and kind that I gave the poor orphan a 
home and a father. I wish first, however, to give Zuleima a 
husband, if your majesty will allow it. The Tartar Ivan, 
my chamberlain, loves Zuleima, and she shall be his wife if 
your majesty consents.” 

“By all means,” said Frederick; “but I fear it will be 
difficult to have this marriage solemnized in Berlin. Your 
Tartar, I believe, has the honor to be heathen.” 

“ Sire, he is, in faith, a Persian.” 

“ A fire-worshipper, then,” said Frederick. ‘“ Well, I pro- 
pose that Voltaire shall bless this marriage; where fire is 
worshipped as a god, Voltaire, the man of fire and flame, may 
well be priest.” 

“ Ah, sire, I believe we are all Persians; surely we all 
worship the light, and turn aside from darkness. You are 
to us the god Ormuzd, from whom all light proceeds; and 
every priest is for us as Ahriman, the god of darkness. Be 
gracious to me, then, your majesty, and do not call upon me 
to play the réle of priest even in jest. But why does this 
happy son of the heathen require a priest? Is not the sun- 
god Ormuzd himself present? With your majesty’s permis- 
sion, we will place the loving pair upon the upper terrace of 
Sans-Souci, where they will be baptized in holy fire by the 
clear rays of the mid-day sun. Then the divine Marianna,. 
Cochois, and Denys will perform some mystical dance, and so 
the marriage will be solemnized according to Persian rites. 
and ceremonies.” 

“ And then, I dare hope your majesty will give a splendid 
wedding-feast, where costly wines and rich and rare viands:. 
will not fail us,” said La Mettrie. 

“Look, now, how his eyes sparkle with anticipated de- 
lights!” cried the king. “La Mettrie would consent to wed. 
every woman in the world if he could thereby spend his. 
whole life in one continuous wedding-feast; but listen, sir, 
before you eat again, you have a story to relate. Discharge 
this duty at once, and give us a piquant anecdote from your 
gay life.” : 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 403 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE CONFIDENTIAL DINNER. 


“YOUR majesty desires a piquant anecdote out of my 
own life,” said La Mettrie. “Is there any thing on earth 
more piquant than a truffle-pie? Can any thing deserve 
more ardent praise, and fonder, sweeter remembrance, than 
this beautiful revelation of man’s genius? Yes, sire, a suc- 
cessful truffle-pie is a sort of revealed religion, and I am its 
devout, consecrated priest! One day I relinquished, for the 
love of it, a considerable fortune, a handsome house, and a 
very pretty bride, and I confess that even now a truftle-pie 
has more irresistible charms for me than any bride, even 
though richly endowed.” 

“ And was there ever a father mad enough to give his. 
daughter to the ‘homme machine?’” said the king 

“Sire, I had just then written my ‘Penelope.’ Mon- 
sieur van Swiet, of Leyden, a poor invalid, who had been for 
weeks confined to his bed by a cold, read it, and laughed so 
heartily over the mockery and derision at the gentlemen 
doctors, that he fell into a profuse perspiration—a result 
which neither the art of the physicians nor the prayers of 
the priests had been able to accomplish. The stiffness in his 
limbs was healed; in fact, he was restored to health! His 
first excursion was to see me, and he implored me to sug- 
gest a mode by which he could manifest his gratitude. 
‘Send me every day a truffle-pie and a bottle of Hungarian 
wine,’ I replied. Swiet was greatly amused. ‘I have some- 
thing better than a truffle-pie,’ said he. ‘I have a daughter 
who will inherit all my fortune. You are not rich in ducats, 
but largely endowed with wit. I wish that my grand- 
children, who will be immensely wealthy, may have a father 
who will endow them richly with intellect. Wed my 
daughter, and present me with a grandson exactly like your- 
self’ I accepted this proposition, and promised the good 
Van Swiet to become his son-in-law in eight days; to dwell 
with him in his house, and to cheer and enliven him daily 
for a few hours after dinner, with merry, witty conversation, 

26 


404 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


that his liver might be kept in motion, and his digestion im- 
proved.” 

“Just think of this tender Hollander, this disinterested 
father, who selects a husband for his daughter in order to im- 
prove his digestion! ” 

“Did you not see your bride before the wedding? Per- 
haps she was a changeling, whom the father wished to get rid 
of in some respectable manner, and therefore gave her to 
you.” 

“T saw my bride, sire, and indeed Esther was a lovely 
girl, who had but one fault—she did not love me. She had 
the naiveté to tell me so, and indeed to confess that she ar- 
dently loved another, a poor clerk of her father’s, who, when 
their lovewas discovered, a short time before, had been turned 
out of the house. They loved each other none the less glow- 
ingly for all this. I shrugged my shoulders, and recalled the 
wish of her father, and my promise to him. But when the 
little Esther implored me to refuse her hand, and plead with 
her father for her beloved, I laughed and jested no longer, but 
began to look at the thing gravely. I did go to her father, 
and informed him of all that had passed. He listened to 
me quietly, and then asked me, with a fearful grimace, if I 
preferred prison fare to truffle-pie, every day, at my own 
table. You can imagine that I did not hesitate in my choice. 

“<« Well, then,’ said my good Swiet, ‘if you do not wed 
my daughter, I will withdraw my protecting hand from you, 
and your enemies will find a means to cast you into prison. 
A new book, “LZ’Homme Machine,” has just appeared, and 
every man swears it is your production, though your name is 
not affixed to the title-page. The whole city, not only the 
priests, but the worldlings, are enraged over this book. They 
declare it is a monster of unbelief and materialism. If, in 
spite of all this, I accept you as my son-in-law, it is be- 
cause I wish to show the world that I despise it, and am 
not in the slightest degree influenced by its prejudices and 
opinions, but am a bold, independent, freethinker. Decide, 
then! Will you marry my daughter and eat truffle-pie 
daily, or will you be cast into prison?’ 

“¢T will marry your daughter! I swear that in eight days 
she shall be my wife!’ 


Ee 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 405 


“ Herr van Swiet embraced me warmly, and commenced 
his preparations for the wedding immediately. Esther, 
however, my bride, never spoke to me; never seemed to see 
me. Her eyes were swollen, and she was half-blind from 
weeping. Once we met alone in the saloon. She hastened 
to leave it; but, as she passed by me, she raised her arms to 
heaven, then extended them threateningly toward me. ‘ You 
are a cruel and bad man. You will sacrifice a human soul 
to your greed and your irresistible and inordinate desires! 
If God is just, you will die of a truffle-pie! I say not that 
you will yield up your spirit, for you have none! You will, 
you must die like a beast—from beastly gluttony!’ ” 

“The maiden possessed the wisdom of a sibyl,” said the 
king, “ and I fear she has prophesied correctly as to your sad 
future. Hate has sometimes the gift of prophecy, and sees 
the future clearly, while Love is blind. It appears to me 
your Esther did not suffer from the passion of love.” 

“No, sire, she hated me. But her lover, the young Mier- 
itz, did not share this dislike. He seemed warmly attached 
to me; was my inseparable companion; embraced me with 
tears, and forgave me for robbing him of his beloved, declar- 
ing that I was more worthy of her than himself. He went 
so far in his manifestations of friendship as to invite me to 
breakfast on the morning of my wedding-day, at which time 
he wished to present me with something sumptuous he had 
brought from Amsterdam. I accepted the invitation, and as 
the wedding-ceremony was to take place at twelve o’clock, in 
the cathedral, we were compelled to breakfast at eleven. I 
was content. I thought I could better support the weari- 
some ceremony if sustained by the fond remembrance of the 
luxurious meal I had just enjoyed. Our breakfast began 
punctually at eleven, and I assure your majesty it was a 
rare and costly feast. My young friend Mieritz declared, 
however, that the dish which crowned the feast was yet 
to come. At last he stepped to the kitchen himself to bring 
this jewel of his breakfast. With a mysterious smile he 
quickly returned, bringing upon a silver dish a smoking pie. 
A delicious fragrance immediately pervaded the whole room 
—a fragrance which then recalled the hour most rich in bless- 
ing of my whole life. Beside myself—filled with prophetic 


406 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


expectation—I rushed forward and raised the top crust of 
the pie. Yes, it was there!—it met my ravished gaze !—the 
pie which I had only eaten once, at the table of the Duke 
de Grammont! Alas! I lost the good duke at the battle 
of Fontenoy, and the great mystery of this pasty went down 
with him into the hero’s grave. And now that it was ex- 
humed, it surrounded me with its costly aroma; it smiled 
upon me with glistening lips and voluptuous eyes. I 
snatched the dish from the hands of my friend, and placed it 
before me on the table. At this moment the clock struck 
twelve. 

“¢ Miserable wretch!’ I cried, ‘you bring me this pie, 
and this is the hour of my marriage!’ 

“¢ Well,’ said Mieritz, with the cool phlegm of a Hol- 
lander, ‘let us go first to the wedding, and then this pasty 
can be warmed up.’ 

“Warmed up!’ roared I; ‘warm up this pie, whose 
delicious odor has already brought my nose into its magic 
circle! Can you believe I would outlive such a vandalism, 
that I would consent to such sacrilege? To warm a pie!—it 
is to rob the blossom of its fragrance, the butterfly of the 
purple and azure of its wings, beauty of its innocence, the 
golden day of its glory. No, I will never be guilty of such 
deadly crime! This pie thirsts to be eaten! I will, there- 
fore, eat it!’ 

“T ate it, sire, and it overpowered me with heavenly 
rapture. I was like the opium-eater, wrapped in elysium, 
carried into the heaven of heavens. All the wonders of 
creation were combined in this heavenly food, which I thrust 
into my mouth devoutly, and trembling with gladness. It 
was not necessary for Mieritz to tell me that this pie was 
made of Indian birds’-nests, and truffles from Perigord. 
I knew it—I felt it! This wonder of India had unveiled my 
enraptured eyes! A new world was opened before me! I 
ate, and I was blessed! 

“What was it to me that messenger after messenger 
came to summon me, to inform me that the priest stood be- 
fore the altar; that my young bride and her father and a 
crowd of relations awaited me with impatience? I cried 
back to them: ‘Go! be off with you! Let them wait till 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 407 


the judgment-day! I will not rise from this seat till this 
dish is empty!’ I ate on, and while eating my intellect was 
clearer, sharper, more profound than ever before! I re- 
joiced over this conviction. Was it not a conclusive proof 
that my theory was correct, that this ‘homme machine’ re- 
ceived its intellectual fluid, its power of thought through it- 
self, and not through this fabulous, bodiless something which 
metaphysicians call soul? Was not this a proof that, to pos- 
sess a noble soul, it was only necessary to give to the body 
noble nourishment? And where lies this boasted soul? 
where else but in the stomach? The stomach is the soul; I 
allow it is the brain that thinks, but the brain dares only 
think as his exalted majesty the stomach allows; and if his . 
royal highness feels unwell, farewell to thought.” * 

The whole company burst out in loud and hearty laughter. 

“ Am I not right to call you a fow fieffé?” said the king. 
“There is an old proverb, which says of a coward, that his 
heart lies in his stomach; never before have I heard the 
soul banished there. But your hymns of praise over the 
stomach and the pie have made you forget to finish your 
story; let us hear the conclusion! Did the marriage take 
place?” 

“Sire, I had not quite finished my breakfast when the 
door was violently opened, and a servant rushed in and an- 
nounced that the good Van Swiet had had a stroke of apo- 
plexy in the cathedral. The foolish man declared that rage 
and indignation over my conduct had produced this fearful 
result; I am, myself, however, convinced that it was the con- 
sequence of a good rich breakfast and a bottle of Madeira 
wine; this disturbed the circulation of the blood, and he 
was chilled by standing upon the cold stone floor of the 
church. Be that as it may, poor Swiet was carried uncon- 
scious from the church to his dwelling, and in a few hours 
he was dead! Esther, his daughter and heir, was unfilial 
enough to leave the wish of her father unfulfilled. She 
would not acknowledge our contract to be binding, declared 
herself the bride of the little Mieritz, and married him in a 
few months. I had, indeed, a legal claim upon her, but 
Swiet was right when he assured me that so soon as he with- 

* La Mettrie’s own words. 


408 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


drew his protection from me, the whole pack of fanatical 
priests and weak-minded scholars would fall upon and tear 
me to pieces, unless I saved myself by flight. So I obeyed 
your majesty’s summons, took my pilgrim-staff, and wan- 
dered on, like Ahasuerus.” 

“What! without taking vengeance on the crafty Mieritz, 
who, it is evident, had carried out successfuly a well-con- 
sidered strategy with his pie?” said the king. “You must 
know that was all arranged: he caught you with his pie, as 
men catch mice with cheese.” 

“ Even if I knew that to be so, your majesty, I should not . 
quarrel with him on that account. I should have only said 
to my pie, as Holofernes said to Judith: ‘Thy sin was a 
great enjoyment, I forgive you for slaying me!’ For such a 
pie I would again sacrifice another bride and another for- 
tune!” 

“ And is there no possible means to obtain it?” said the 
king. “Can you not obtain the receipt for this wonderful 
dish, which possesses the magic power to liberate young 
women from intolerable men, and change a miser into a 
spendthrift who thrusts his whole fortune down his throat?” 

“ There is a prospect, sire, of securing it, but you cannot 
be the first to profit by it. Lord Tyrconnel, who knows my 
history, opened a diplomatic correspondence with Holland, 
some weeks ago, on this subject, and the success of an im- 
portant loan which France wishes to effect with the house of 
Mieritz and Swiet, through the mediation of Lord Tyrconnel, 
hangs upon the obtaining of this receipt. If Mieritz refuses 
it, France will not make the loan. In that case the war, 
which now seems probable with England, will not take 
place.” 

“ And yet it is said that great events can only arise from 
great causes,” cried the king. “The peace of the world 
now hangs upon the receipt of a truffle-pie, which La Met- 
trie wishes to obtain.” 

“What is the peace of the world in comparison with the 
peace of our souls?” cried Voltaire. “La Mettrie may say 
what he will, and the worthy Abbé Bastiani may be wholly 
silent, but I believe I have a soul, which does not lie in 
my stomach, and this soul of mine will never be satisfied 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 409 


till your majesty keeps your promise, and relates one of 
those intellectual, piquant histories, glowing with wisdom 
and poesy, which so often flows from the lips of our Solo- 
mon!” 

“Tt is true it is now my turn to speak,” said Frederick, 
smiling. “I will be brief. Not only the lights, but also the 
eyes of Algarotti, are burning dimly; and look how the good 
marquis is, in thought, making love-winks toward his night- 
cap, which lies waiting for him upon his bed! But be com- 
forted, gentlemen, my story is short. Like La Mettrie, I 
will relate a miracle, in which, however the eyes were 
profited, the stomach had no interest. This miracle took 
place in Breslau, in the year 1747. 

“Cardinal Zinzendorf was just dead, and the Duke 
Schafgotch, who some years before I had appointed his coad- 
jutor, was to be his successor. But the Silesians were not 
content. They declared that Duke Schafgotch was too fond 
of the joys and pleasures of the world to be a good priest; 
that he thought too much of the beautiful women of this 
world to be able to offer to the holy Madonna, the mother 
of God, the sanctified, ardent, but pure and modest love of a 
true son of the church. The pious Silesians refused to be- 
lieve that the duke was sufficiently holy to be their bishop. 
The sage fathers of the city of Breslau assured me that 
nothing less than a miracle could secure for him the love 
and consideration of the Silesians. I had myself gone to 
Silesia to see if the statement of the authorities was well- 
founded, and if the people were really so discontented with 
the new bishop. I found their statement fully confirmed. 
Only a great miracle could incline the pious hearts of the 
Silesians to the duke. 

“ And now remark, messieurs, how Providence is always 
with the pious and the just—this desired miracle took place! 
On a lovely morning a rumor was spread abroad, in the city 
of Breslau, that in the chapel of the Holy Mother of God 
a miracle might be seen. All Breslau—the loveliest ladies 
of the haute volée, and the poorest beggars of the street— 
rushed to the church to look upon this miracle. Yes, it was 
undeniable! The hair of the Madonna, which stood in 
enticing but wooden beauty upon the altar, whose clothing 


410 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


was furnished by the first modistes, and whose hair by the 
first perruquier—this hair, wonderful to relate, had grown! 
It was natural that she should exercise supernatural power. 
The blind, the lame, the crippled were cured by her touch. 
I myself—for you may well think that I hastened to see the 
miracle—saw a lame man throw away his crutch and dance 
a minuet in honor of the Madonna. There was a blind man 
who approached with a broad band bound over his eyes. He 
was led forward to this wonderful hair. Scarcely had the 
lovely locks touched his face, than he tore the band from his 
eyes, and shouted with ecstasy—his sight was restored! 
Thousands, who were upon their knees praying in wrapt de- 
votion, shouted in concert with him, and here and there in- 
spired voices called out: ‘ The holy Madonna is content with 
her new servant the bishop! if she were not, she would not 
perform these miracles.’ These voices fell like a match in 
this magazine of excitement. Men wept and embraced each 
other, and thanked God for the new bishop, whom yes- 
terday they had refused. 

“In the meantime, however, there were still some sus- 
picious, distrustful souls who would not admit that the 
growth of the Madonna’s hair was a testimony in favor of 
the bishop. But these stiff-necked unbelievers, these heart- 
less skeptics, were at last convinced. Two days later this 
lovely hair had grown perceptibly; and still two days later, 
it hung in luxurious length and fulness over her shoulders. 
No one could longer doubt that the Holy Virgin was pleased 
with her priest. It had often happened that hair had turned 
gray, or been torn out by the roots in rage and scorn. No 
ene, however, can maintain that the hair grows unless we 
are in a happy and contented mood. The Madonna, there- 
fore, was pleased. The wondrous growth of her hair en- 
raptured the faithful, and all mankind declared that this 
holy image cut from a pear-tree, was the Virgin Mary, who 
with open eyes watched over Breslau, and whose hair grew 
in honor of the new Bishop Schafgotch—he was now almost 
adored. Thousands of the believers surrounded his palace 
and besought his blessing. It was a beautiful picture of a 
shepherd and his flock. The Madonna no longer found it 
necessary to make her hair grow; one miracle had sufficed, 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 411 


and with the full growth of her hair the archbishop had also 
grown into importance.” 

“But your majesty has not yet named the holy saint at 
whose intercession this miracle was performed,” said the 
‘Marquis D’Argens. “Graciously disclose the name, that 
we may pray for pardon and blessing.” 

“This holy saint was my friseur,” said the king, laugh- 
ing. “I made him swear that he would never betray my 
secret. Every third day, in the twilight, he stole secretly to 
the church, and placed a new wig upon the Madonna, and 
withdrew the old one.* You see, messieurs, that not only 
happiness but piety may hang on a hair, and those holy 
saints to whom the faithful pray were, without doubt, adroit 
perruquiers who understand their cue.” 

“ And who use it as a scourge upon the backs of the pious 
penitents, ” said Voltaire. “ Ah, sire! your story is as wise 
as it is piquant—it is another proof that you are a warrior. 
You have won a spiritual battle with your miraculous wig, 
a battle against Holy Mother Church.” 

“By which, happily, no soldiers and only a few wigs 
were left behind. But see how grave and mute our very 
worthy abbé appears—I believe he is envious of the miracle 
I performed! And now it is your turn, Bastiani: give us 
your story—a history of some of the lovely Magdalens you 
have encountered.” 

“ Ah, sire! will not your majesty excuse me?” said the 
abbé, bowing low. “ My life has been the still, quiet, lonely, 
unostentatious life of a priest, and only the ever-blessed 
King Frederick William introduced storm and tempest into 
its even course. That was, without doubt, God’s will; other- 
wise this robust and giant form which He gave me would 
have been in vain. My height and strength so enraptured _ 
the emissaries of the king, that in the middle of the service 
before the altar, as I was reading mass, they tore me away 
without regarding the prayers and outcries of my flock. I 
was violently borne off, and immediately enrolled as a 
soldier.” + 

“ A wonderful idea!” cried Voltaire, “to carry off a 

* Authentic addition to the “ History of Frederick the Second.” 
+ Thiébault. 


412 . BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


priest in his vestments and make a soldier of him; but say, 
now, abbé, could you not, at least, have taken your house- 
keeper with you? I dare say she was young and pretty.” 

“I do not know,” said Bastiani; “I am, as you know, 
very short-sighted, and I never looked upon her face; but it 
was a great misfortune for a priest to be torn from the 
Tyrolese mountains and changed into a soldier. But now, 
I look upon this as my greatest good fortune; by this means 
were the eyes of my exalted king fixed upon me; he was 
gracious, and honored me with his condescending friend- 
ship.” 

“You forget there is no king here, and that here no man ~ 
must be flattered,” said Frederick, frowning. 

“Sire, I know there is no king present, and that proves 
I am no flatterer. I speak of my love and admiration 
to my king, but not to his face. I praise and exalt him be- 
hind his back; that shows that I love him dearly, not for 
honor or favor, but out of a pure heart fervently.” 

“What happiness for your pure and unselfish heart, that 
your place of canonary of Breslau brings in three thousand 
thalers! otherwise your love, which does not understand 
flattery, might leave you in the lurch; you might be hungry.” 

“He that eats of the bread of the Lord shall never 
hunger,” said Bastiani, in a low and solemn voice; “he that 
will serve two masters will be faithful to neither, and may 
fear to be hungry.” 

“Oh, oh! look at our pious abbé, who throws off his 
sheep’s skin and turns the rough side out,” cried Voltaire. 
“Tt is written, ‘The sheep shall be turned into wolves,’ and 
you, dear abbé, in your piety fulfil this prophecy.” 

“Your witty illusions are meant for me because I am the 
historian of the King of France, and gentleman of the bed- 
chamber to the King of Prussia. Compose yourself. As 
historian to the King of France, I have no pension, and his 
majesty of Prussia will tell you that I am the most useless 
of servants that the sun of royal favor ever shone upon. 
Yes, truly, I am a poor, modest, trifling, good-for-nothing 
creature; and if his majesty did not allow me, from time to 
time, to read his verses and rejoice in their beauty, and here 
and there to add a comma, I should be as useless a being as 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 413 


that Catholic priest stationed at Dresden, at the court of 
King Augustus, who has nothing to do—no man or woman to 
confess—there, as here, every man being a Lutheran. Al- 
garotti told me he asked him once how he occupied himself. 
The worthy abbé answered: ‘Io sono il cattolica di sua 
maesta.” So I will call myself, ‘Il pedagogue di sua 
maestd.’* Like yourself, I serve but one master.” 

“ Alas! I fear my cattolica will not linger long by me,” 
said the king. “ A man of his talent and worth cannot con- 
tent himself with being canon of Breslau. No, Bastiani, 
you will, without doubt, rise higher. You will become a 
prelate, an eminence; yes, you will, perhaps, wear the tiara. 
But what shall I be when you have mounted this glittering 
pinnacle—when you have become pope? I wager you will 
deny me your apostolic blessing; that you will not even 
allow me to kneel and kiss your slipper. If any man should 
dare to name me to you, you would no longer remember this 
unselfish love, which, without doubt, you feel passionately 
for me at this moment. Ah! I see you now rising from St. 
Peter’s chair with apostolic sublimity, and exclaiming with 
praiseworthy indignation: ‘How! this heretic, this unclean, 
this savage from hell! I curse him, I condemn him. Let no 
man dare even to name him.’ ” 

“ Grace, grace, sire!” cried the abbé, holding his hands 
humbly, and looking up at the king. 

The other gentlemen laughed heartily. The king was 
inexorable. The specious holiness and hypocrisy which the 
abbé had brought upon the stage incensed him, and he was 
resolved to punish it. 

“Now, if you were pope, and I am convinced you will 
be, I should, without doubt, go to Rome. It is very im- 
portant for me to ascertain, while I have you here, what sort 
of a reception you would accord me? So, let us hear. When 
I appear before your holiness, what will you say to me?” 

The abbé, who had been sitting with downcast eyes, 
and murmuring from time to time in pleading tones: “ Ah, 
sire! ah, sire!” now looked up, and a flashing glance fell 
upon the handsome face of the king, now glowing with 
mirth. 

* “ uvres Complétes de Voltaire,” p. 376. 


414 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“Well?” repeated the king, “what would you say 
to me?” 

“Sire,” said Bastiani, bowing reverently, “I would say, 
‘Almighty eagle, cover me with your wings, and protect me 
from your own beak.’ ” * 

“That is an answer worthy of your intellect,” said the 
king, smiling, “ and in consideration of it I will excuse you 
from relating some little history of your life—Now, Duke 
Algarotti, your time has come. You are the last, and no 
doubt you will conclude the evening worthily.” 

“Sire, my case is similar to Bastiani’s. There has been 
no mystery in my life; only that which seemed miraculous 
for a priest was entirely natural and simple in my case. I 
have travelled a great deal, have seen the world, known men; 
and all my experience and the feelings and convictions of my 
heart have at last laid me at the feet of your majesty. I 
am like the faithful, who, having been healed by a miracle, 
hang a copy of the deceased member upon the miraculous 
image which cured them. My heart was sick of the world 
and of men; your majesty healed it, and I lay it thankfully 
and humbly at your feet. This is my whole history, and 
truly it is a wonderful one. I have found a manly king and 
a kingly man.” ¢ 

“Truly, such a king is the wonder of the world,” said 
Voltaire. “A king, who being a king, is still a man, and 
being a man is still a noble king. I believe the history of 
the world gives few such examples. If we search the records 
of all people, we will find that all their kings have committed 
many erimes and follies, and but few great, magnanimous 
deeds. No, no! let us never hope to civilize kings. In vain 
have men sought to soften them by the help of art; in vain 
taught them to love it and to cultivate it. They are always 
lions, who seemed to be tamed when perpetually flattered. 
They remain, in truth, always wild, bloodthirsty, and fantas- 
tic. In the moment when you least expect it, the instinct 
awakens, and we fall a sacrifice to their claws or their 
teeth.” t 

The king, who, up to this time, had listened, with a smil- 

* Bastiani’s own words.—See Thiébault, p. 43. 
+ Algarotti’s own words. t Thiébault. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS, 415 


ing face, to the passionate and bitter speech of Voltaire, now 
rose from his seat, and pointing his finger threateningly at _ 
him, said, good-humoredly: “Still, still, monsieur!  Be- 
ware! I believe the king comes! Lower your voice, Vol- 
taire, that he may not hear you. If he heard you, he might 
consider it his duty to be even worse than yourself.* Be- 
sides, it is late. Let us not await the coming of the king, 
but withdraw very quietly. Good-night, messieurs.” 

With a gracious but proud nod of his head, he greeted 
the company and withdrew. 


CHAPTER V. 


ROME SAUVEE. 


THE whole court was in a state of wild excitement. A 
rare spectacle was preparing for them—something unheard 
of in the annals of the Berliners. Voltaire’s new drama of 
“ Catiline,” to which he had now given the name of “ Rome 
Saved,” was to be given in the royal palace, in a private 
theatre gotten up for the occasion, and the actors and ac- 
tresses were to be no common artistes, but selected from the 
highest court circles. Princess Amelia had the réle of 
Aurelia, Prince Henry of Julius Cesar, and Voltaire of 
Cicero. 

The last rehearsal was to take place that morning. Vol- 
taire had shown himself in his former unbridled license, his 
biting irony, his cutting sarcasm. Not an actor or actress 
escaped his censure or his scorn. The poor poet D’Arnaud 
had been the special subject of his mocking wit. D’Arnaud 
had once been Voltaire’s favorite scholar, and he had com- 
mended him highly to the king. He had the misfortune to 
please Frederick, who had addressed to him a flattering 
poem. For this reason Voltaire hated him, and sought con- 
tinually to deprive him of Frederick’s favor and get him 
banished from court. 

* The king’s own words. 


416 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCTI; OR, 


This morning, for the first time, there was open strife be- 
tween them, and the part which D’Arnaud had to play in 
“ Rome Sauvée” gave oecasion for the difficulty. D’Ar- 
naud, it is true, had but two words to say, but his enuncia- 
tion did not please Voltaire. He declared that D’Arnaud 
uttered them intentionally and maliciously with coldness 
and indifference. 

D’Arnaud shrugged his shoulders and said a speech of 
two words did not admit of power or action. He asked 
what declamation could possibly do for two insignificant 
words, but make them ridiculous. 

This roused Voltaire’s rage to the highest pitch. “ And 
this utterance of two words is then beyond your ability? 
It appears you cannot speak two words with proper em- 
phasis! ” * 

And now, with fiery eloquence, he began to show that 
upon these words hung the merit of the drama; that this 
speech was the most important of all! With jeers and sar- 
casm he drove poor D’Arnaud to the wall, who, breathless, 
raging, choking, could find no words nor strength to reply. 
He was dumb, cast down, humiliated. 

The merry laughter of the king, who greatly enjoyed 
the scene, and the general amusement, increased the pain of 
his defeat, and made the triumph of Voltaire more complete. 

At last, however, the parts were well learned, and even 
Voltaire was content with his company. This evening the 
entire court was to witness the performance of the drama, 
which Voltaire called his master-work. 

Princess Amelia had the réle of Aurelia. She had with- 
drawn to her rooms, and had asked permission of the queen- 
mother to absent herself from dinner. Her part was diffi- 
cult, and she needed preparation and rest. 


* In a letter to Madame Denis, Voltaire wrote: “Tout le monde me re- 
proche que le roi a fait des vers pour d’Arnaud, des vers qui ne sont pas ce 
oe a fait de mieux; mais songez qu’A quatre cent lieues de Paris il est bien 

ifficile de savoir si un homme qu’on lui recommende a du mérite ou non; de 
plus c’est toujours des vers, et bien ou mal appliqués ils prouvent que le vain- 

ueur de l’Autriche aime les belles-lettres que j’aime de tout mon cceur. 

ailleurs D’Arnaud est un bon diable, qui par-ci par-la ne laisse pas de ren- 
contrer de bons tirades. 1] a du gout, il se forme, et s’il aime qu’il se déforme, 
il n’y a pas grand mal. En un mot, la petite méprise du Roi de Prusse n’em- 
péche pas qu’il ne soit le plus singulier de tous les hommes.”—Voyez “ Gu- 
vres Completes.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 417 


But the princess was not occupied with her réle, or with 
the arrangement of her toilet. She lay stretched upon the 
divan, and gazed with tearful eyes upon the letter which she 
held in her trembling hands. Mademoiselle von Haak was 
kneeling near her, and looking up with tender sympathy 
upon the princess. 

“ What torture, what martyrdom I suffer!” said Amelia. 
“T must laugh while my heart is filled with despair; I must 
take part in the pomps and fétes of this riotous court, while 
thick darkness is round about me. No gleam of light, no 
star of hope, do I see. Oh, Ernestine, do not ask me to be 
calm and silent! Grant me at least the relief of giving ex- 
pression to my sorrow.” 

“Dear princess, why do you nourish your grief? Why 
will you tear open the wounds of your heart once more?” 

“Those wounds have never healed,” cried Amelia, pas- 
sionately. “No! they have been always bleeding—always 
painful. Do you think so pitifully of me, Ernestine, as to 
believe that a few years have been sufficient to teach me to 
forget?” 

“Am I not also called upon to learn to forget?” cried 
Ernestine, bitterly. “Is not my life’s happiness destroyed? 
Am I not eternally separated from my beloved? Alas! 
princess, you are much happier than I! You know where, 
at least in thought, you can find your unhappy friend. Not 
the faintest sound in the distance gives answer to my wild 
questionings. My thoughts are wandering listlessly, wearily. 
They know not where to seek my lover—whether he lies in 
the dark fortress, or in the prison-house of the grave.” 

“Tt is true,” said Amelia, thoughtfully; “our fates are 
indeed pitiable! Oh, Ernestine, what have I not suffered in 
the last five years, during which I have not seen Trenck?— 
five years of self-restraint, of silence, of desolation! How 
often have I believed that I could not support my secret 
griefs—that death must come to my relief! How often, 
with rouged cheeks and laughing lips, conversing gayly with 
the glittering court circle whose centre my cruel brother 
forced me to be, have my troubled thoughts wandered far, 
far away to my darling; from whom the winds brought me 
no message, the stars no greeting; and yet I knew that 


418 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


he lived, and loved me still! If Trenck were dead, he would 
appear to me in spirit. Had he forgotten me, I should know 
it; the knowledge would pierce my heart, and I should die 
that instant. I know that he has written to me, and that all 
his dear letters have fallen into the hands of the base spies 
with which my brother has surrounded me. But I am not 
mad! I will be calm; a day may come in which Trenck 
may require my help. I will not slay myself; some day I 
may be necessary to him I love. I have long lived, as the 
condemned in hell, who, in the midst of burning torture, 
open both eyes and ears waiting for the moment when the 
blessed Saviour will come for their release. God has at 
last been merciful; He has blinded the eyes of my perse- 
cutors, and this letter came safe:y to my hands. Oh, Ernes- 
tine, look! look! a letter from Trenck! He loves me—he 
has not forgotten me—he calls for me! Oh, my God! my 
God! why has fate bound me so inexorably? Why was I 
born to a throne, whose splendor has not lighted my path, 
but cast me in the shadow of death? Why am I not poor and 
obscure? Then I might hasten to my beloved when he 
calls me. I might stand by his side in his misfortunes, and 
share his sorrows and his tears.” 

“Dear princess, you can alleviate his fate. Look at me! 
I am poor, obscure, and dependent, and yet I cannot hasten 
to my beloved; he is in distress, and yet he does not call 
upon me for relief. He knows that I cannot help him. You, 
princess, thanks to your rank, have power and influence. 
Trenck calls you, and you are here to aid and comfort.” 

“God grant that I may. Trenck implores me to turn to 
my brother, and ask him to interest the Prussian embassy in 
Vienna in his favor; thereby hoping to put an end to the 
process by which he is about to be deprived of his only in- 
heritance—the estate left him by his cousin, the captain of 
the pandours. Alas! can I speak with my brother of Trenck? 
He knows not that for five years his name has never passed 
my lips; he knows not that I have never been alone with my 
brother the king for one moment since that eventful day in 
which I promised to give him up forever. We have both 
avoided an interview; he, because he shrank from my 
prayers and tears, and I, because a crust of ice had formed 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 419 


over my love for him, and I would not allow it to melt be- 
neath his smiles and kindly words. I loved Trenck with 
my whole heart, I was resolved to be faithful to him, and I 
was resentful toward my brother. Now, Ernestine, I must 
eavercome myself, I must speak with the king; Trenck needs 
my services, and I will have courage to plead for him.” 

“ What will your highness ask? think well, princess, be- 
fore you act. Who knows but that the king has entirely 
forgotten Trenck? Perhaps it were best so. You should 
not point out to the angry lion the insect which has awakened 
him, he will crush it in his passion. Trenck ‘is in want; 
send him gold—gold to bribe the men of law. It is well- 
known that the counsellors-at-law are dull-eyed enough to 
mistake sometimes the glitter of gold for the glitter of the 
sun of justice. Send him gold, much gold, and he will tame 
the tigers who lie round about the courts of justice, and he 
will win his suit.” 

Princess Amelia shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. 
“He calls upon me for help, and I send him nothing but 
empty gold; he asks for my assistance, and I play the coward 
and hold my peace. No, no! I will act, and I will act to- 
day! You know that only after the most urgent entreaty of 
the king, I consented to appear in this drama. While my 
brother pleaded with me, he said, with his most winning 
smile, ‘Grant me this favor, my sister, and be assured that 
the first petition you make of me, I will accord cheerfully.’ 
Now, then, I will remind him of this promise; I will plead 
for Trenck, and he dare not refuse. Oh, Ernestine! I know 
not surely, but it appears to me that for some little time past 
the king loves me more tenderly than heretofore; his eye 
rests upon me with pleasure, and often it seems to me his 
soft glance is imploring my love in return. You may call 
me childish, foolish; but I think, sometimes, that my silent 
submission has touched his heart, and he is at last disposed 
to be merciful, and allow me to be happy—happy, in ellewing 
me to flee from the vain glory of a court; in forgetting that 
I am a princess, and remembering only that I am a woman, 
to whom God has given a heart capable of love.” Amelia 
did not see the melancholy gaze with which her friend re- 
garded her; she was full of ardor and enthusiasm, and with 

27 


420 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


sparkling eyes and throbbing breast she sprang from the 
divan and cried out, “ Yes, it is so; my brother will make me 
happy!” 

. Alas, princess, do not dare to rely upon so false a hope! 
Never will the king consent that you shall be happy beneath 
your royal rank! ” 

“Tell me now, Ernestine,” said Amelia, with a smile, 
“is not the reigning Margravine of Baireuth as high in 
rank as I am?” 

“Yes, your highness,” said Ernestine, with surprise, 
“for the reigning Margravine of Baireuth is your exalted 
sister.” 

“T do not speak of her, but of the widow of the former 
margrave. She has also reigned. Well, she has just mar- 
ried the young Duke Hobitz. The king told me this yester- 
day, with a merry laugh. The little Duchess of Hobitz is 
his aunt, and I am his sister! ” 

“Tf the king had had power to control his aunt, as he has 
to control his sister, he would not have allowed this mar- 
Triage.” 

Amelia heard, but she did not believe. With hasty steps 
and sparkling eyes she walked backward and forward in her 
room; then, after a long pause, she drew near her friend, 
and laying her hands upon her shoulders, she said: “ You are 
a good soul and a faithful friend; you have ever had a pa- 
tient and willing ear for all my complaints. Only think now 
how charming it will be when I come to tell you of my great 
happiness. And now, Ernestine, come, you must go over my 
part with me once more, and then arrange my toilet. I will 
be lovely this evening, in order to please the king. I will 
play like an artiste in order to touch his cold heart. If I 
act my part with such truth and burning eloquence that he 
is forced to weep over the sorrows of the wretched and loving 
woman whom I represent, will not his heart be softened, 
will he not take pity upon my blasted life? The tragic part 
I play will lend me words of fire to depict my own agony. 
Come, then, Ernestine, come! I must act well my tragedy— 
I must win the heart of my king!” 

The princess kept her word; she played with power and 
genius. Words of passion and of pain flowed like a stream 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 421 


of lava from her lips; her oaths of faith and eternal con- 
stancy, her wild entreaties, her resignation, her despair, 
were not the high-flown, pompous phrases of the tragedian, 
but truth in its omnipotence. It was living passion, it was 
breathing agony; and, with fast-flowing tears, with the pallor 
of death, she told her tale of love; and in that vast saloon, 
glittering with jewels, filled with the high-born, the brave, 
the beautiful, nothing was heard but long-drawn sighs and 
choking sobs. 

Queen Elizabeth Christine forgot all etiquette in the re- 
membrance of her own sad fate so powerfully recalled. She 
covered her face with her hands, and bitter tears fell over 
her slender fingers. The queen-mother, surprised at her 
own emotion, whispered lightly that it was very warm, and 
while fanning herself she sought to dry her secret tears un- 
noticed. 

Even the king was moved; his eyes were misty, and in- 
describable melancholy played upon his lips. Voltaire was 
wild with rapture; he hung upon every movement, every 
glance of Amelia. Words of glowing praise, thanks, admira- 
tion flowed from his lips. He met the princess behind the 
scenes, and forgetting all else he cried out, with enthusiasm: 
“You are worthy to be an actress, and to play in Voltaire’s 
tragedies! ” 

The princess smiled and passed on silently—what cared 
she for Voltaire’s praise? She knew that she had gained 
her object, and that the king’s heart was softened. This 
knowledge made her bright and brave; and when at the close 
of the drama the king came forward, embraced her with 
warmth, and thanked her in fond and tender words for the 
rich enjoyment of the evening, due not only to the great poet 
Voltaire, but also to the genius of his sister, she reminded 
him smilingly that she had a favor to ask. 

“T pray you, my sister,” said Frederick, gayly, “ask 
something right royal from me this evening—I am in the 
mood to grant all your wishes.” 

Amelia looked at him pleadingly. “Sire,” said she, 
“appoint an hour to-morrow morning in which I may come 
to you and make known my request. Remember, your maj- 
esty has promised to grant it in advance.” 


499, BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


The king’s face was slightly clouded. “This is, indeed, 
a happy coincidence,” said he. “It was my intention to 
ask an interview with you to-morrow, and now you come 
forward voluntarily to meet my wishes. At ten in the 
morning I shall be with you, and I also have something to 
ask.” 

“T will then await you at ten o’clock, and make known 
my request.” 

“ And when I have granted it, my sister, it will be your 
part to fulfil my wishes also.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


A WOMAN’S HEART. 


THE Princess Amelia lay the whole of the following 
night, with wide-open eyes and loudly-beating heart, pale 
and breathless upon her couch. No soft slumber soothed 
her feverish-glowing brow; no sweet dream of hope dis- » 
sipated the frightful pictures drawn by her tortured fantasy. 

“ What is it?” said she, again and again—“ what is it 
that the king will ask of me? what new mysterious horror 
rises up threateningly before me, and casts a shadow upon 
my future?” 

She brought every word, every act of the previous day 
in review before her mind. Suddenly she recalled the sad 
and sympathetic glance of her maid of honor; the light in- 
sinuations, the half-uttered words which seemed to convey 
a hidden meaning. 

“Ernestine knows something that she will not tell me,” 
cried Amelia. At this thought her brow was covered with 
cold perspiration, and her limbs shivered as if with ague. 
She reached out her hand to ring for Fraulein von Haak; 
then suddenly withdrew it, ashamed of her own impatience. 
“ Why should I wish to know that which I cannot change? 
I know that a misfortune threatens me. I will meet it with 
a clear brow and a bold heart.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 493 


Amelia lay motionless till the morning. When she rose 
from her bed, her features wore an expression of inexorable 
resolve. Her eyes flashed as boldly, as daringly as her royal 
brother Frederick’s when upon the battle-field. She dressed 
herself carefully and tastefully, advanced to meet her ladies 
with a gracious greeting, and chattered calmly and cheer- 
fully with them on indifferent subjects. At last she was left 
alone with Fraulein von Haak. She stepped in front of her, 

and looked in her eyes long and searchingly. 

“T read it in your face, Ernestine, but I entreat you do 
not make it known in words unless my knowledge of the 
facts would diminish my danger.” 

Ernestine shook her head sadly. “ No,” said she, “ your 
royal highness has no power over the misfortune that threat- 
ens you. You are a princess, and must be obedient to the 
will of the king.” 

“Good!” said Amelia, “we will see if my brother has 
power to subdue my will. Now, Ernestine, leave me; I am 
expecting the king.” 

Searcely had her maid withdrawn, when the door of the 
anteroom was opened, and the king was announced. The 
princess advanced to meet him smilingly, but, as the king 
embraced her and pressed a kiss upon her brow, she shud- 
dered and looked up at him searchingly. She read nothing 
in his face but the most heart-felt kindliness and love. 

“Tf he makes me miserable, it is at least not his intention 
to do so,” thought she.—“ Now, my brother, we are alone,” 
said the princess, taking a place near the king upon the . 
divan. ‘“ And now allow me to make known my request at 
once—remember you have promised to grant it.” 

The king looked with a piercing glance at the sweet face 
now trembling with excitement and impatience. ‘“ Amelia,” 
said he, “have you no tender word of greeting, of warm 
home-love to say to me? Do you not know that five years 
have passed since we have seen each other alone, and enjoyed 
that loving and confidential intercourse which becomes 
brothers and sisters?” 

“T know,” said Amelia sadly, “these five years are 
written on my countenance, and if they have not left 
wrinkles on my brow, they have pierced my heart with many 


424 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


sorrows, and left their shadows there! Look at me, my 
brother—am I the same sister Amelia?” 

“No,” said the king, “no! You are pallid—your cheeks 
are hollow. But it is strange—I see this now for the first 
time. You have been an image of youth, beauty, and grace 
up to this hour. The fatigue of yesterday has exhausted 
you—that is all.” 

“No, my brother, you find me pallid and hollow-eyed to- 
day, because you see me without rouge. I have to-day for 
the first time laid aside the mask of rosy youth, and the smil- 
ing indifference of manner with which I conceal my face 
and my heart from the world. You shall see me to-day as 
I really am; you shall know what I have suffered. Perhaps 
then you will be more willing to fulfil my request? Listen, 
my brother, I—” 

The king laid his hand softly upon her shoulder. “ Stop, 
Amelia; since I look upon you, I fear you will ask me some- 
thing not in my power to grant.” 

“You have given me your promise, sire.” 

“T will not withdraw it; but I ask you to hear my prayer 
before you speak. Perhaps it may exert an influence—may 
modify your request. I allow myself, therefore; in con- 
sideration of your own interest, solely to beg that I may 
speak first.” 

“You are king, sire, and have only to command,” said 
Amelia, coldly. 

The king fixed a clear and piercing glance for one mo- 
ment upon his sister, then stood up, and, assuming an earnest 
and thoughtful mien, he said: “I stand now before you, 
princess, not as a king, but as the ambassador of a king. 
Princess Amelia, through me the King of Denmark asks 
your hand; he wishes to wed you, and I have given my con- 
sent. Your approval alone is wanting, and I think you will 
not refuse it.” 

The princess listened with silent and intrepid composure ; 
not a muscle of her face trembled; her features did not lose 
for one moment their expression of quiet resolve. 

“ Have you finished, sire?” said she, indifferently. 

“T have finished, and I await your reply.” 

“ Before I answer, allow me to make known my own re- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 495 


quest. Perhaps what I may say may modify your wishes. 
You will, at least, know if it is proper for me to accept the 
hand of the King of Denmark. Does your majesty allow me 
to speak?” 

“ Speak,” said the king, seating himself near her. 

After a short pause, Amelia said, in an earnest, solemn 
voice: “ Sire, I pray for pardon for the Baron Frederick von 
Trenck.” Yielding to an involuntary agitation, she glided 
from the divan upon her knees, and raising her clasped 
hands entreatingly toward her brother, she repeated: “ Sire, 
I pray for pardon for Baron Frederick von Trenck! ” 

The king sprang up, dashed back the hands of his sister 
violently, and rushed hastily backward and forward in the 
room. : 

Amelia, ashamed of her own humility, rose quickly from 
her knees, and, as if to convince herself of her own daring 
and resolution, she stepped immediately in front of the king, 
and said, in a loud, firm voice for the third time: “ Sire, I 
pray for pardon for Baron Frederick von Trenck. He is 
wretched because he is banished from his home; he is in 
despair because he receives no justice from the courts of law, 
it being well known that he has no protector to demand his 
rights. He is poor and almost hopeless because the courts 
have refused him the inheritance of his cousin, the captain 
of the pandours whose enemies have accused him since his 
death, only while they lusted for his millions. His vast es- 
tate has been confiscated, under the pretence that it was un- 
lawfully acquired. But these accusations have not been es- 
tablished; and yet, now that he is dead, they refuse to give 
up this fortune to the rightful heir, Frederick von Trenck. 
Sire, I pray that you will regard the interests of your sub- 
ject. Be graciously pleased to grant him the favor of your 
intercession. Help him, by one powerful word, to obtain 
possession of his rights. Ah, sire, you see well how modest, 
how faint-hearted I have become. I ask no longer for happi- 
ness! I beg for gold, and I think, sire, we owe him this piti- 
ful reparation for a life’s happiness trodden under foot.” 

Frederick by a mighty effort succeeded in overcoming 
his rage. He was outwardly as calm as his sister; but both 
concealed under this cool, indifferent exterior a strong 


496 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


energy, an unfaltering purpose. They were quiet because 
they were inflexible. 

“And this is the favor you demand of me?” said the 
king. 

“ The favor you have promised to grant,” said Amelia. 

“ And if I do this, will you fulfil my wish? Will you be- 
come the wife of the King of Denmark? Ah, you are silent. 
Now, then, listen. Consent to become Queen of Denmark, 
and on the day in which you pass the boundary of Prussia 
and enter your own realm as queen, on that day I will recall 
Trenck to Berlin, and all shall be forgotten. Trenck shall 
again enter my guard, and my ambassador at Vienna shall 
appear for him in court. Decide, now, Amelia—will you 
be Queen of Denmark?” 

“ Ah, sire, you offer me a cruel alternative. You wish 
me to purchase a favor which you had already freely and 
unconditionally granted.” 

“You forget, my sister, that I entreat where I have the 
right to command. It will be easy to obey when through 
your obedience you can make another happy. Once more, 
then, will you accept my proposition?” 

Amelia did not answer immediately. She fixed her eyes 
steadily upon the king’s face; their glances met firmly, 
quietly. Each read in the eyes of the other inexorable re- 
_ solve. 

“Sire, I cannot accept your proposition; I cannot be- 
come the wife of the King of Denmark.” | 

The king shrank back, and a dark cloud settled upon his 
brow. He pressed his hand nervously upon the arm-chair 
near which he stood, and forced himself to appear calm. 
“ And why can you not become the wife of the King of Den- 
mark?” 

“ Because I have sworn solemnly, calling upon God to 
witness, that I will never become the wife of any other man 
than him whom I love—because I consider myself bound to 
God and to my conscience to fulfil this oath. As I cannot 
be the wife of Trenck, I will remain unmarried.” 

And now the king was crimson with rage, and his eyes 
flashed fiercely. “The wife of Trenck!” cried he; “the 
wife of a traitor! Ah, you think still of him, and in spite 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 4927 


of your vow—in spite of your solemn oath—you still enter- 
tain the hope of this unworthy alliance!” 

“ Sire, remember on what conditions my oath was given. 
You promised me Trenck should be free, and I swore to 
give him up—never even to write to him. Fate did not ac- 
cept my oath. Trenck fled before you had time to fulfil 
your word, and I was thus released from my vow; and yet 
I have never written to him—have heard nothing from him. 
No one knows better than yourself that I have not heard 
from him.” 

“So five years have gone by without his writing to you, 
and yet you have the hardihood to-day to call his name!” 

“T have the courage, sire, because I know well Trenck 
has never ceased to love me. That I have received no letters 
from him does not prove that he has not written; it only 
proves that I am surrounded by watchful spies, who do not 
allow his letters to reach me.” 

“ Ah,” said the king, with a contemptuous shrug of the 
shoulders, “ you are of the opinion that I have suppressed 
these letters?” 

“Yes, I am of that opinion.” 

“You deceive yourself, then, Amelia. I have not sur- 
rounded you with spies; I have intercepted no letters. You 
look at me incredulously. I-declare to you that I speak the 
truth. Now you can comprehend, my sister, that your heart 
has deceived you—you have squandered your love upon a 
wretched object who has forgotten you.” 

“Sire!” cried Amelia, with flaming eyes, “no abuse of 
the man I love!” 

“You love him still!” said the king, white with passion, 
and no longer able to control his rage—* you love him still! 
You have wept and bewailed him, while he has shamefully 
betrayed and mocked at you. Yes, look on me, if you will, 
with those scornful, rebellious glances—it is as I say! You 
must and shall know all! I have spared you until now; I 
trusted in your own noble heart! I thought that, driven by 
a storm of passion, it had, like a proud river, for one moment 
overstepped its bounds; then quietly, calmly resumed that 
course which nature and fate had marked out for it. I see 
now that I have been deceived in you, as you have been de- 


428 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


ceived in Trenck! I tell you he has betrayed you! He, 
formerly a Prussian officer, at the luxurious and debauched 
‘ court of Petersburg, has not only betrayed you, but his king. 
At the table of his mistress, the wife of Bestuchef, he has 
shown your picture and boasted that you gave it to him. 
The Duke of Goltz, my ambassador at the Russian court, in- 
formed me of this; and look you,.I did not slay him! I did 
not demand of the Empress Anne that the Prussian deserter 
should be delivered up. I remembered that you had once 
loved him, and that I had promised you to be lenient. But 
I have had him closely watched. I know all his deeds; I 
am acquainted with all his intrigues and artifices. I know 
he has had a love-affair with the young Countess Narischkin 
—that he continued his attentions long after her marriage 
with General Bondurow. Can you believe, my sister, that 
he remembered the modest, innocent oaths of love and con- 
stancy he had exchanged with you while enjoying himself in 
the presence of this handsome and voluptuous young woman? 
Do you believe that he recalled them when he arranged a 
plan of flight with his beloved, and sought a safe asylum be- 
yond the borders of Russia? Do you believe that he thought 
of you when he received from this ill-regulated woman her 
diamonds and all the gold she possessed, in orde~ to smooth 
the way to their escape?” 

“Mercy, mercy!” stammered Amelia, pale and trem- 
bling, and sinking upon a seat. “ Cease, my brother; do you 
not see that your words are killing me? Have pity upon me!” 

“No! no mercy!” said the king; “you must and you 
shall know all, in order that you may be cured of this unholy 
malady, this shameful love. You shall know that Trenck not 
only sells the secrets of politics, but the secrets of love. 
Every thing is merchandise with him, even his own heart. 
He not only loved the beautiful Bondurow but he loved her 
diamonds. This young woman died of the small-pox, a few 
days before the plan of flight could be fully arranged. 
Trenck, however, became her heir; he refused to give back 
the brilliants and the eight thousand rubles which she had 
placed in his hands.” 

“Oh my God, my God! grant that I die!” cried the 
Princess Amelia. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 499 


“But the death of his beloved,” said the king (without 
regarding the wild exclamations of the princess)—“ this 
death was so greatly to his advantage, that he soon consoled 
himself with the love of the attractive Bestuchef—this proud 
and intriguing woman who now, through the weakness of 
her husband, rules over Russia, and threatens by her plots 
and intrigues to complicate the history and peace of Europe. 
She is neither young nor beautiful; she is forty years of age, 
and you cannot believe that Trenck at four-and-twenty 
burns with love for her. But she adores him; she loves him 
with that mad, bacchantic ardor which the Roman empress 
Julia felt for the gladiators, whose magnificent proportions 
she admired at the circus. She loved him and confessed it; 
and his heart, unsubdued by the ancient charms, yielded to 
the magic power of her jewels and her gold. He became the 
adorer of Bestuchef; he worked diligently in the cabinet 
of the chancellor, and appeared to be the best of Russian 
patriots, and seemed ready to kiss the knout with the same 
devotion with which he kissed the slipper of the chancellor’s 
wife. At this time I resolved to try his patriotism, and com- 
missioned my ambassador to see if his patriotic ardor could 
not be cooled by gold. Well, my sister, for two thousand 
ducats, Trenck copied the design of the fortress of Cronstadt, 
which the chancellor had just received from his engineer.” 

“ That is impossible! ” said Amelia, whose tears had now 
ceased to flow, and who listened to her brother with distend- 
ed but quiet eyes. 

“Tmpossible! ” said Frederick. “ Oh my sister, gold has 
a magic power to which nothing is impossible! I wished to 
unmask the traitor Trenck, and expose him in his true colors 
to the chancellor. I ordered Goltz to hand him the copy of 
the fortress, drawn by Trenck and signed with his name, and 
to tell him how he obtained it. The chancellor was beside 
himself with rage, and swore to take a right Russian re- 
venge upon the traitor—he declared he should die under the 
knout.” 

Amelia uttered a wild cry, and clasped her hands over her ~ 
convulsed face. 

The king laughed bitterly. “Compose yourself—we 
triumphed too early; we had forgotten the woman! In his 


430 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


rage the chancellor disclosed every thing to her, and uttered 
the most furious curses and resolves against Trenck. She 
found means to warn him, and, when the police came in the 
night to arrest him, he was not at home—he had taken refuge 
in the house of his friend the English ambassador, Lord 
Hyndforth.” * 

“ Ah! he was saved, then?” whispered Amelia. 

The king looked at her in amazement. “ Yes, he was 
saved. The next day, Madame Bestuchef found means to 
convince her credulous husband that Trenck was the victim 
of an intrigue, and entirely innocent of the charge brought 
against him. Trenck remained, therefore, the friend of the 
house, and Madame Bestuchef had the audacity to publicly 
insult my ambassador. Trenck now announced himself as 
a raging adversary of Prussia. He inflamed the heart of 
his powerful mistress with hate, and they swore the destruc- 
tion of Prussia. Both were zealously engaged in changing 
the chancellor, my private and confidential friend, into an 
enemy; and Trenck, the Russian patriot, entered the service 
of the house of Austria, to intrigue against me and my 
realm.t Bestuchef, however, withstood these intrigues, and 
in his distrust he watched over and threatened his faithless 
wife and faithless friend. Trenck would have been lost, with- 
out doubt,if a lucky accident had not again rescued him. His 
cousin the pandour died in Vienna, and, as Trenck believed 
that he had left him a fortune of some millions, he tore his 
tender ties asunder, and hastened to Vienna to receive this 
rich inheritance, which, to his astonishment, he found to con- 
sist not in millions, but in law processes. This, Amelia, is 
the history of Trenck during these five years in which you 
have received no news from him. Can you still say that he 
has never forgotten you? that you are bound to be faithful 
to him? You see I do not speak to you as a king, but as a 
friend, and that I look at all these unhappy circumstances 


* Trenck’s Memoirs. 

+ Trenck himself writes on this subject: “I would at that time have 
changed my fatherland into a howling wilderness, if the Y edeeee had 
offered. rat not deny that from this moment I did everything that was 
ossible, in Russia, to promote the views of the imperial ambassador, Duke 
ernis, who knew how to nourish the fire already kindled, and to make use 
of my services.” 


. 


ee ee eee eee ee 


a 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 431 


from your standpoint. Treat me, then, as a friend, and an- 
swer me sincerely. Do you still feel bound by your oath? 
Do you not know that he is a faithless traitor, and that he has 
forgotten you?” 

The princess had listened to the king with a bowed head 
and downeast eyes. Now she looked up; the fire of inspira- 
tion beamed in her eye, a melancholy smile played upon her 
lips. 

“ Sire,” said she, “I took my vow without conditions, and 
I will keep it faithfully till my death. Suppose, even, that a 
part of what you have said is true, Trenck is young; you can- 
not expect that his ardent and passionate heart should be 
buried under the ashes of the vase of tears in which our love, 
in its beauty and bloom, crumbled to dust. But his heart, 
however unstable it may appear, turns ever back faithfully 
to that fountain, and he seeks to purify and sanctify the 
wild and stormy present by the remembrance of the beautiful 
and innocent past. You say that Trenck forgot me in his 
prosperity; well, then, sire, in his misfortune he has re- 
membered me. In his misfortune he has forgotten the faith- 
less, cold, and treacherous letter which I wrote to him, and 
which he received in the prison of Glatz. In his wretched- 


“ness, he has written to me, and called upon me for aid. It 


shall not be said that I did not hear his voice—that I was not 
joyfully ready to serve him!” 

“ And he has dared to write to you!” said the king, with 
trembling lips and scornful eye. “Who was bold enough 
to hand you this letter?” 

“ Oh, sire, you will not surely demand that I shall betray 
my friends! Moreover, if I named the messenger who 
brought me this letter, it would answer no purpose; you 
would arrest and punish him, and to-morrow I should find 
another to serve me as well. Unhappy love finds pity, pro- 
tection, and friends everywhere. Sire, I repeat my request 
—pardon for Baron Trenck!” 

“ And I,” cried ‘the king, in a loud, stern voice, “I ask if 
you accept my proposition—if you will become the wife of 
the King of Denmark—and, mark well, princess, this is the 
answer to your prayer.” 

“Sire, may God take pity on me! Punish me with your 


432 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


utmost scorn—I cannot break my oath! You can force me 
to leave my vows unfulfilled—not to become the wife of the 
man I love—but you cannot force me to perjure myself. I 
should indeed be foresworn if I stepped before the altar with 
another man, and promised a love and faith which my heart 
knows not, and can never know.” 

The king uttered a shrill cry of rage; maledictions hung 
upon his lips, but he held them back, and forcing himself to 
appear composed, he folded his arms, and walked hastily 
backward and forward through the room. 

The princess gazed at him in breathless silence, and with 
loudly-beating heart she prayed to God for mercy and help; 
she felt that this hour would decide the fate of her whole life. 
Suddenly the king stood before her. His countenance was 
now perfectly composed. 

“ Princess Amelia,” said he, “I give you four weeks’ res- 
pite. Consider well what I have said to you. Take counsel 
with your conscience, your understanding, and your honor. 
In four weeks I will come again to you, and ask if you are 
resolved to fulfil my request, and become the wife of the 
King of Denmark. Until that time, I will know how to 
restrain the Danish ambassador. If you dare still to op- 
pose my will, I will yet fulfil my promise, and grant you 
the favor you ask of me. I will make proposals to Trenck 
to return to Prussia, and the inducements I offer shall 
be so splendid that he will not resist them. Let me once 
have him here, and it shall be my affair to hold fast to 
him.” 

He bowed to the princess and left the room. Amelia 
watched him silently, breathlessly, till he disappeared, then 
heaved a deep sigh and called loudly for her maid. 

“Ernestine! Ernestine!” said she, with trembling lips, 
“find me a faithful messenger whom I can send immediately 
to Vienna. I must warn Trenck! Danger threatens him! 
No matter what my brother’s ambassador may offer him, with 
what glittering promises he may allure him, Trenck dare not 
listen to them, dare not accept them! He must never return 
to Prussia—he is lost if he does so!” 

Frederick returned slowly and silently to his apartment. 
As he thought over the agitating scene he had just passed 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 433 


through, he murmured lightly, “Oh, woman’s heart! thou 
art like the restless, raging sea, and pearls and monsters lie 
in thy depths!” | 


CHAPTER VIL. 


MADAME VON COCCEJI. 


THE Marquis d’Argens was right. Barbarina and her 
sister had left England and returned to Berlin. They occu- 
pied the same expensive and beautiful hotel in Behren 
Street; but it was no longer surrounded by costly equipages, 
and besieged by gallant cavaliers. The élite of the court no 
longer came to wonder and to worship. 

Barbarina’s house was lonely and deserted, and she her- 
self was changed. She was no longer the graceful, enchant- 
ing prima donna, the floating sylph; she was a calm, proud 
woman, almost imposing in her grave, pale. beauty; her 
melancholy smile touched the heart, while it contrasted 
strangely with her flashing eye. 

Barbarina was in the same saloon where we last saw her, 
‘surrounded with dukes and princes—worshippers at her 
shrine! To-day she was alone; no one was by her side but 
her faithful sister Marietta. She lay stretched upon the 
divan, with her arms folded across her bosom; her head was 
thrown back upon the white, gold-embroidered cushion, and 
her long, black curls fell in rich profusion around her; with 
‘wide-open eyes she stared upon the ceiling, completely lost 
in sad and painful thoughts. At a small table by her side 
sat her sister Marietta, busily occupied in opening and read- 
ing the letters with which the table was covered. 

And now she uttered a ery of joy, and a happy smile 
played upon her face. “A letter from Milan, from the im- 
pressario, Bintelli,” said she. 

Barbarina remained immovable, and still stared at the 
ceiling. 

“Binatelli offers you a magnificent engagement; he de- 
clares that all Italy languishes with impatience to see you, 


434. BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


that every city implores your presence, and he is ambitious 
to be the first to allure you back to your fatherland.” 

“Did you write to him that I desired an engagement?” 
said Barbarina. 

“No, sister,” said Marietta, slightly blushing; “I wrote 
to him as to an old and valued friend; I described the rest- 
less, weary, nomadic life we were leading, and told him you 
had left the London stage forever.” 

“ And does it follow that I will therefore appear in Milan? 
Write at once that I am grateful for his offer, but neither in 
Milan nor any other Italian city will I appear upon the 
stage.” 

“ Ah, Barbarina, will we never again return to our beauti- 
ful Italy?” said Marietta, tearfully. 

“Did I say that, sister? I said only, I would not appear 
in public.” 

) “But, Barbarina, he entreats so earnestly, and he offers. 
you an enormous salary!” 

“TI am rich enough, Marietta.” 

“No! no one is rich enough! Money is power, and the 
more millions one has to spend, the more is one beloved.” 

“What care I for the love of men? I despise them all— 
all!” cried Barbarina, passionately. 

“What! all?” said Marietta, with a meaning smile; 
“ all—even Cocceji?” 

Babarina raised herself hastily, and leaning upon her 
elbow, she gazed with surprise upon her sister. “ You think, 
then, that I love Cocceji?” 

“Did you not tell me so yourself?” 

“Ah! I said so myself, did I?” said Barbarina, con- 
temptuously, and sinking back into her former quiet posi- 
tion. 

“Yes, sister, do you not remember,” said Marietta, eager- © 
ly; “can you not recall how sad you were when we left Ber- 
lin a year ago? You sobbed and wept, and looked ever back- 
ward from the carriage, then lightly whispered, ‘ My happi- 
ness, my life, my love remain in Berlin!’ I asked you in what 
your happiness, your love, your life consisted. Your answer 
was, ‘ Do you not know, then, that I love Cocceji?’ In truth, 
good sister I did not believe you! I thought you left Ber- 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 485 


lin because the mother of Cocceji implored you to do so. 
I know you to be magnanimous enough to sacrifice yourself 
+o the prayers and happiness of another, and for this reason 
alone you went to London, where Lord Stuart McKenzie 
awaited us.” 

“Poor lord!” said Barbarina, thoughtfully. “I sinned 
greatly against him! He loved me fondly; he waited for me 
with constancy; he was so truly happy when I came at last, 
as he hoped, to fulfil my promise, and become his wife! 
God knows I meant to be true, and I swore to myself to make 
him a faithful wife; but my will was weaker than my heart. 
I could not marry him, and on my wedding-day I fled from 
London. Poor Lord Stuart!” 

“ And on that day, when, bathed in tears, you told me 
to prepare to leave London with you secretly; on that day 
you said to me, ‘I cannot, no, I cannot wed a man I do not 
love. The air chokes me, Marietta; I must return to Ber- 
lin; he is there whom I love, whom I will love eternally!’ 
I said again, ‘Whom do you love, my sister?’ and you re- 
plied, ‘I love Cocceji!’ And now you are amazed that I be- 
lieve you! Is it possible that I can doubt your word? Is it 
pessible that Barbarina tells an untruth to her fond and 
faithful sister? that she shrouds her heart, and will not 
allow Marietta to read what is written there?” 

“Tf I did that,” said Barbarina, uneasily, “it was because 
I shrank from reading my own heart. Be pitiful, Marietta, 
do not lift the veil; allow my poor heart to heal its wounds 
in peace and quiet.” 

-“Tt cannot heal, sister, if we remain here,” said Marietta, 
trembling with suppressed tears. “ Let us fly far, far away; 
accept the offer of Binatelli; it is the call of God. Come, 
come, Barbarina, we will return to our own Italy, to beauti- 
ful Rome. Remain no longer in this cold north, by these icy 
hearts! ” 

“T cannot, I cannot!” cried Barbarina, with anguish. “TI 
have no fatherland—no home. I am no longer a Roman, no 
longer an Italian. I am a wretched, homeless wanderer. 
Why will not my heart bleed and die? Why am I condemned 
to live, and be conscious of this torture?” 

“Stop, stop, my sister!” cried Marietta, wildly; “not 

28 


436 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


another word! You are right; we will not lift this fearful 
veil. Cover up your heart in darkness—it will heal!” ; 

“Tt will heal!” repeated Barbarina, pressing Marietta 
to her bosom and weeping bitterly. 

The entrance of a servant aroused them both; Barbarina 
turned away to hide her weeping eyes. The servant an- 
nounced a lady, who desired anxiously to speak with the 
signora. 

“ Say to her that Barbarina is unwell, and can receive no 
one.” 

In a few moments the servant returned with a card, 
which he handed to Marietta. “The lady declared she 
knew the signora would receive her when she saw the card.” 

“ Madame Cocceji,” said Marietta. 

Barbarina rose up hastily. 

“ Will you receive her?” asked Marietta. 

“T will receive her.” 

And now a great change passed over Barbarina: all 
melancholy, all languor had disappeared; her eyes sparkled, 
her cheeks glowed with an engaging smile, as she advanced 
to greet the proud lady who stood upon the threshold. 

“ Ah, generous lady, how good you are!” said Barbarina, 
in a slightly mocking tone. “I have but just returned to 
Berlin, and you gladden my heart again by your visit, and 
grant me the distinction and privilege of receiving in my 
house one of the most eminent and virtuous ladies of 
Berlin.” 

Madame Cocceji threw a contemptuous glance upon the 
beautiful young woman who dared to look in her face with 
such smiling composure. 

“T have not come, madame, to visit you, but to speak to 
you!” 

“T do not see the distinction; we visit those with whom 
we wish to speak.” 

“We visit those with whom we wish to speak, and who 
are trying to evade an interview! I have sent to you twice, 
signora, and commanded you to come to me, but you have 
not obeyed!” 

“T am accustomed to receive those who wish to see 
me at my own house,” said Barbarina, quietly. “ Indeed, 


.—").. , ee 
f) 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 437 


madame, I understand your language perhaps but poorly. 
Is it according to the forms of etiquette to say, ‘I have com- 
manded you to come to me?’ In my own fair land we give 
a finer turn to our speech, and we beg for the honor of a 
visit.’ As Barbarina said this, she bowed with laughing 
grace to the proud woman, who gazed at her with suppressed 
rage. 

“This is the second time I have been forced to seek an 
interview with you.” 

“The first time, madame, you came with a petition, and 
I was so happy as to be able to grant your request. May I 
be equally fortunate to-day! Without doubt you come again 
as a petitioner,” said Barbarina, with the cunning manner 
of a cat, who purrs while she scratches. 

The proud Cocceji was wounded; she frowned sternly, 
but suppressed her anger. Barbarina was right—she came 
with a request. 

“T called upon you a year ago,” said she, “ and implored 
you to cure my son of that wild love which had fallen upon 
him like the fever of madness—which made him forget his 
duty, his rank, his parents. I besought you to leave Berlin, 
and withdraw from his sight that magical beauty. which had 
seduced him.” 

“And I declared myself ready to grant your petition,” 
interrupted Barbarina. “Yes, I conformed myself to your 
wishes, and left Berlin, not, however, I confess, to do you a 
service, but because I did not love your son; and there is 
nothing more dull and wearisome than to listen to protesta- 
tions of love that you cannot return. But look you, gracious 
lady, that is a misfortune that pursues me at every step. I 
left Berlin to escape this evil, and fled to London, to find 
there the same old story of a love I could not return. I fled 
then from London, to escape the danger of becoming the 
wife of Lord Stuart McKenzie.” 

“Why did you return to Berlin?” said Madame Cocceji, 
in an imperious tone. 

Barbarina looked up surprised. “ Madame,” said she, 
“ for that step I am accountable to no one.” 

“Yes, you are accountable to me!” cried Madame 
Cocceji, enraged to the utmost by Barbarina’s proud com- 


438 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


posure. “You are accountable to me—me, the mother of 
Cocceji! You have seduced him by your charms, and driven 
him to madness. He defies his parents and the anger of his 
king, and yields himself up to this shameful passion, which 
covers his family with disgrace.” 

Barbarina uttered a cry of rage, and advanced a few steps. 
“Madame,” said she, laying her hand upon the arm of 
Madame Cocceeji, “ you have called this love shameful. You 
have said that an alliance with me would disgrace your 
family. Take back your words, I pray you!” 

“T retract nothing. I said but the truth,” cried Madame 
Cocceji, freeing herself from Barbarina. 

“Take back your words, madame, for your own sake!” 
said Barbarina, threateningly. 

“T cannot, and will not!” she sealed, imperiously, “ and 
if your pride and arrogance has not completely blinded you, 
in your heart you will confess that I am right. The dancer 
Barbarina can never be the daughter of the Coccejis. That 
would be a mockery of all honorable customs, would cast 
contempt upon the graves of our ancestors, and bring shame 
upon our nobility. And yet my unhappy son dares think of 
this dishonor. In his insane folly, he rushed madly from my 
presence, uttering words of rage and bitter reproach, because 
I tried to show him that this marriage was impossible.” 

“Ah, I love him for this!” cried Barbarina, with a 
genial smile. 

Without regarding her, Madame Cocceji went on: “ Even 
against his father, he has dared to oppose himself. He 
defies the anger of his king. Oh, signora, in the anguish of 
my soul I turn to you; have pity with me and with my most 
unhappy son! He is lost; he will go down to the grave dis- 
honored, if you do not come to my help! If, indeed, you 
love him, your love will teach you to make the offering of 
self-sacrifice, and I will bless you, and forgive you all the 
anguish you have caused me. If you love him not, you will 
not be so cruel as to bury the happiness and honor of a whole 
family because of your lofty ambition and your relentless 
will. Hear my prayer—leave this city, and go so far away 
that my son can never follow, never reach you! ” 

“Then I must go into my grave,” said Barbarina; “ there 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 439 


is no other refuge to which, if he truly loves, he cannot fol- 
low me. I, dear madame, cannot, like yourself, move un- 
known and unregarded through the world. My fame is the 
herald which announces my presence in every land, and 
every city offers me, with bended knee, the keys of her gates 
and the keys of her heart. I cannot hide myself. Nothing 
is known of the proud and noble family of Cocceji outside of 
Prussia; but the wide, wide world knows of the Barbarina, 
and the laurel-wreaths with which I have been crowned in 
every land have never been desecrated by an unworthy act 
or an impure thought. There is nothing in my life of which 
I repent, nothing for which I blush or am ashamed! And 
yet you have dared to reproach me—you have had the audac- 
ity to seek to humiliate me in my own house.” 

“You forget with whom you havc the honor to speak.” 

“You, madame, were the first to 1orget yourself; I follow 
your example. I suppose Madame Cocceji knows and does 
ever that which is great and right. I said you had vilified 
me in my own house, and yet you ask of me an act of magna- 
nimity! Why should I relinquish your son’s love?” 

“Why? Because there remains even yet, perhaps, a 
spark of honorable feeling in your bosom. Because you 
know that my family will never receive you, but will curse 
and abhor you, if you dare to entice my son into a marriage. 
Because you know that the Prussian nobles, the king himself, 
are on my side. The king, signora, no longer favors you; 
the king has promised us his assistance. The king will use 
every means of grace and power to prevent a marriage, which 
he himself has written to me will cover my son with dis- 
honor! ”* 

“That is false!” cried Barbarina. 

“Tt is true! and it is true that the king, in order to pro- 
tect the house of Cocceji from this shame, has given my hus- 
band authority to arrest my son and cast him into prison, 
provided my prayers and tears and menaces should be of no 
avail! If we fail, we will make use of this authority, and 
give him over to General Hake.t Think well what you do— 
do not drive us to this extremity. I say there is a point 
at which even a mother’s love will fail, and the head of our 

* Schneider, “ History of the Opera in Berlin.” + Ibid. 


440 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI: OR, 


house will act with all the sternness which the law and the 
king permit. Go, then, Signora Barbarina—bow your proud 
head—leave Berlin. Return to your own land. I repeat 
to you, do not drive us to extremity!” 

Barbarina listened to this with cool and mocking com- 
posure. Not a muscle of her face moved—she was indeed 
striking in her majesty and her beauty. Her imposing 
bearing, her pallid but clear complexion, her crimson, tightly- 
compressed lips, her great, fiery eyes, which spoke the scorn 
and contempt her proud lips disdained to utter, made a pic- 
ture never to be forgotten. 

“ Madame,” said she, slowly, emphasizing every word, 
“you have, indeed, driven me to extremity. It was not my 
intention to marry your son. But your conduct has now 
made that a point of honor. Now, madame, I will graciously 
yield to the passionate entreaties of your son, and I will wed 
him.” 

“That is to say, you will force my husband to make use 
of the power the king has given him?” 

Barbarina shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. “ Ar- 
rest your son, and cast him into prison, you will thereby add 
a new celebrity to your name, and quench the last spark of 
piety and obedience in his heart. Love has wings, and will 
follow him everywhere, and will waft him to the altar, where 
he will wed Barbarina. Neither your curse, nor your arrest, 
nor the will of the king, will now protect him. Before six 
months are over, will Barbarina the dancer be the wife of 
Cocceji.” 

“Never, never shall that be!” cried Madame Cocceji, 
trembling with rage. 

“ That will be!” said Barbarina, smiling sadly, and bend- 
ing low. “And now, madame, I think you have attained 
the object of your visit, and we have nothing more to say to 
each other. It only remains for me to commend myself to 
your grace and courtesy, and to thank you for the honor of 
your visit. Allow me to call my servant, to conduct you to 
your carriage.” . 

She rang and commanded the servant to open the fold- 
ing doors, and carry the large muff of the countess to the 
carriage. Madame Cocceji was pale with rage. She wished 


a a a EEE 
. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 441 


to remain incognito, and now her name had been called be- 
fore the servant. All Berlin would know before night that 
she had visited Barbarina! 

“Give me my muff,” she said impatiently to the serv- 
ant; “it is not necessary you should carry it. I came on 
foot.” 

“On foot?” said Barbarina, laughing merrily. “ Truly, 
you wished to remain incognito, and you would not leave 
your equipage with its coat of arms, standing before my 
door! I thank you once more for the honor of your visit, 
and commend myself to you with the glad wish that we may 
meet again.” 

“ Never more!” said Madame Cocceji, casting a wither- 
ing look upon the gay dancer, and hastening from the room. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


VOLTAIRE. 


_. VouTarre was now a continuous guest of King Frederick. 


The latter had written a letter to Louis the Fifteenth, and 
begged him to relinquish his subject and historian, and this 
request was supposed to be acceded to. Besides this, the 
king, who was ever thoughtful of the happiness and comfort 
of his friends, had proposed to Madame Denis, Voltaire’s 
beloved niece, to follow her uncle to Berlin, dwell in the 
royal castle at Potsdam, and accept from him an annuity 
of four thousand frances. 

Voltaire himself besought her to come. He wrote to her 
that, as she had lived contentedly with her husband in Lan- 
dau, she could surely be happy in Berlin and Potsdam. Ber- 
lin was certainly a much more beautiful city than Landau, 
and at Potsdam they could lead an agreeable and uncere- 
monious life. “In Potsdam there are no tumultuous feasts. 
My soul rests, dreams, and works. I am content to find 
myself with a king who has neither a court nor a ministry. 
Truly, Potsdam is infested by many whiskered grenadiers, 


449 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


but, thank Heaven, I see little of them. I work peacefully 
in my room, while the drums beat without. I have with- 
drawn from the dinners of the king; there were too many 
princes and generals there. I could not accustom myself to 
be always vis-a-vis with a king and en cérémonie. But I sup 
with him—the suppers are shorter, gayer, and healthier. 
I would die with indigestion in three months if I dined 
every day in public with a king.” * 

Madame Denis, however, seemed to doubt the happy life 
of Berlin and Potsdam. She wrote, declining the proposi- 
tion, and expressing her fears that Voltaire would himself 
soon repent that he had left beautiful, glittering Paris, the 
capital of luxury and good taste, and taken refuge in a bar- 
barice land, to be the slave of a king, while, in Paris, he had 
been the king of poetry. 

Voltaire had the audacity to bring this letter to the king 
—perhaps to wound him, perhaps to draw from him further 
promises and. assurances. 

Frederick read the letter; his brow did not become cloud- 
ed, and the friendly smile did not vanish from his lips. 
When he had read it to the end, he returned it, and his eyes 
met the distrustful, lowering glance of Voltaire with an ex- 
pression of such goodness and candor that the latter cast his 
eyes ashamed to the ground. 

“Tf I were Madame Denis,” said Frederick, “I would 
think as she does; but, being myself, I view these things dif- 
ferently. I would be in despair if I had occasioned the un- 
happiness of a friend; and it will not be possible for me to 
allow trouble or sorrow to fall upon a man whom I esteem, 
whom I love, andwho has sacrificed for me his fatherland and 
all that men hold most dear. If I could believe that your resi- 
dence here could be to your disadvantage, I would be the first 
to counsel you to give it up. I know I would think more of 
your happiness than I would of the joy of having you with 
me. We are philosophers. What is more natural, more 
simple, than that two philosophers, who seem made for each 
other—who have the same studies, the same tastes, the same 
mode of thinking—should grant themselves the satisfaction 
of living together? I honor you as my teacher of eloquence 

* Quvres Completes, p. 360 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 443 


and poetry; I love you as a virtuous and sympathetic friend. 
What sort of bondage, what misfortunes, what changes have 
you to fear in a realm where you are as highly honored as in 
your fatherland—where you have a powerful friend who ad- 
vances to meet you with a thankful heart? I am not so 
prejudiced and foolish as to consider Berlin as handsome as 
Paris. If good taste has found a home in theworld, I confess 
it is in Paris. But you, Voltaire, will you not inaugurate 
good taste wherever you are? We have organs sufficiently 
developed to applaud you; and, as to love, we will not allow 
any other land superiority in that respect. I yielded to the 
friendship which bound you to the Marquise du Chitelet, 
but I was, next to her, your oldest friend. How, when you 
have sought an asylum in my house, can it ever be thought 
it will become your prison? How, being your friend, can I 
ever become your tyrant? I do not understand this. I am 
convinced that, as long as I live, you will be happy here. 
You will be honored as the father of literature, and you will 
ever find in me that assistance and sympathy which a man 
of your worth has a right to demand of all who honor and 
appreciate him.” * 

“ Alas! your majesty says that you honor me, but you no 
longer say that you love me,” cried Voltaire, who had lis- 
tened to this eloquent and heart-felt speech of the king with 
eager impatience and lowering frowns. “ Yes, yes, I feel it; 
IT know it too well! Your majesty has already limited me to 
your consideration, your regard; but your love, your friend- 
ship, these are costly treasures from which I have been dis- 
inherited. But I know these hypocritical legacy-hunters, 
who have robbed me of that most beautiful portion of my in- 
heritance. I know these poor, beggarly cousins, these D’Ar- 
gens, these Algarottis, these La Mettries, this vainglorious 
peacock Maupertius. I—” 

“ Voltaire,” said the king, interrupting him, “ you for- 
get that you speak of my friends, and I do not allow any one 
to speak evil of them. I will never be partial, never unjust! 
My heart is capable of valuing and treasuring all my friends, 
but my friends must aim to deserve it; and if I give them 
my heart, I expect one in return.” 

* The king’s own words.—C£uvres Posthumes, 


444. BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCT: OR, 


“Friendship is a bill of exchange, by which you give just 
so much as you are entitled to demand in return.” 

“Give me, then, your whole heart, Voltaire, and I will 
‘restore mine to you! But I fear you have no longer a heart; 
Nature gave you but a small dose of this fleeting essence 
called love. She had much to do with your brain, and worked 
at that so long that no time remained to make the heart per- 
fect; just as she was about to pour a few drops of this 
wonderful love-essence into your heart, the cock crew three 
times for your birth, and betrayed you into the world. You 
have long since used up the poor pair of drops which fell 
into your heart. Your brain was armed for centuries, with 
power to work, to be useful, to rejoice the souls of others. 
but I fear your heart was exhausted in your youthful years.” 

“ Ah, I wish your majesty were right!” cried Voltaire; 
“T should not then feel the anguish which now martyrs me, 
the torture of being misunderstood by the most amiable, 
the most intellectual, the most exalted of monarchs. Oh, 
sire, sire! I have a heart, and it bleeds because you doubt of 
its existence! ” 

“TF would believe you if you were a little less pathetic,” 
said the king. “You not only assert, but you declaim. 
There is too little of nature and truth in your tone; you re- 
mind me a little of the stilted French tragedies, in which de- 
sign and premeditation obscure all true passion; in which 
love is only a phrase, that no one believes in, dressed up with 
the tawdry gilding of sentiment and pathos.” 

“Your majesty will crush me with your scorn and mock- 
ery!” cried Voltaire, whose eyes now flamed with anger. 
“You wish to make me feel how powerless, how pitiful I am. 
Where shall I find the strength to strive with you? I have 
won no battles. I have no hundred thousand men to oppose 
to you, and no ‘courts-martial to condemn those who sin 
against me!” 

“Tt is true you have not a hundred thousand soldiers,” 
said the king, “ but you have four-and-twenty, and with these 
four-and-twenty soldiers you have conquered the whole 
realm of spirits; with this little army you have brought the 
whole of educated Europe to your feet. You are, there- 
fore, a much more powerful king than I am. I have, it is 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 445 


true, a hundred thousand men, but I dare not say that they 
will not run when it comes to the first battle. You, Voltaire, 
have your four-and-twenty soldiers of the alphabet, and so 
well have you exercised them, that you must win every battle, 
even if all the kings of the earth were allied against you. 
Let us make peace, then, my ‘invincible!’ do not turn this 
terrible army of the four-and-twenty, with their deadly 
weapons, against me, but graciously allow me to seize upon . 
the hem of your purple robe, to sun myself in your dazzling 
rays, to be your humble scholar, and from you and your army 
of heroes to learn the secret art of winning battles with in- 
visible troops! ” 

“Your majesty makes me feel more and more how poor 
I am; even my four-and-twenty, of whom you speak, have 
gone over to you, and you understand, as well as I do, how to 
exercise them.” 

“No, no!” said Frederick, changing suddenly his jesting 
tone for one of grave earnestness. “ No, I will learn of you. 
I am not satisfied to be a poor-souled dilettante in poetry. 
though assured I can never be a Virgil or a Voltaire. I 
know that the study of poetry demands the life, the undivid- 
ed heart and mind. I am but a poor galley-slave, chained to 
the ship of state; or, if you will, a pilot, who does not dare 
to leave the rudder, or even to sleep, lest the fate of the 
unhappy Palinurus might overtake him. The Muses de- 
mand solitude and rest for the soul, and that I can never 
consecrate to them. Often, when I have written three 
verses, I am interrupted, my muse is chilled, and my spirit 
cannot rise again into the heights of inspiration. I know 
there are privileged souls, who can make verses everywhere 
—in the tumult of court life, in the loneliness of Cirey, in 
the prisons of the Bastile, and in the stage-coach. My poor 
soul does not enjoy this freedom. It resembles an anana, 
which bears fruit only in the green-house, but fades and 
withers in the fresh air.” * 

“ Ah! this is the first time I have caught the Solomon of 
the North in an untruth,” cried Voltaire, eagerly. “ Your 
soul is not like the anana, but like the wondrous southern 
tree which generously bears at the same time fruits and 

* The king’s own words.—CLuvres Posthumes. 


446 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI: OR, 


flowers; which inspires and sweetly intoxicates us with its 
fragrance, and at the same time strengthens and refreshes 
us by its celestial fruits. You, sire, are not the pupil of 
Apollo, you are Apollo himself!” 

The king smiled, and, raising his arms to heaven, he ex- 
claimed, with the mock pathos of a French tragedian: 


“OQ Dieu! qui douez les poétes 
De tant de sublime faveurs; 
Ah, rendez vos graces parfaites, 
Et qwils soient un peu moins menteurs.” : 


“Tn trying to punish me for what you are pleased to call 
my falsehood, your majesty proves that I have spoken the 
truth,” cried Voltaire, eagerly. “ You wish to show me that 
the fruit of your muse ripens slowly, and you improvise a 
charming quatrain that Moliére himself would be proud to 
have composed.” 


“ Rendez vos graces parfaites, 
Et quwils soient un peu moins menteurs!” 


repeated Frederick, nodding merrily to Voltaire. “ Look 
you, friend, I am perhaps that mortal who incommodes the 
gods least with prayers and petitions. My first prayer to- 
day was for you; show, therefore, a little gratitude, and 
prove to me that the gods hear the earnest prayers of the 
faithful. Be less of a flatterer, and speak the simple truth. 
I desire now to look over with you my compositions of the 
last few days. I wish you, however, always to remember 
that when you write, you do so to add to the fame of your 
nation and to the honor of your fatherland. For myself, I 
scribble for my amusement; and I could easily be pardoned, 
if I were wise enough to burn my work as soon as it was 
finished.* When a man approaches his fortieth year and 
makes bad verses as I do, one might say, with Moliére’s 
‘ Misanthrope ’— 

‘Si j’en faisais d’aussi méchants, 

Je me garderais bien de les montrer aux gens.’” 


“Your majesty considers yourself already too old to 
make verses, and you are scarcely thirty-eight: am I not 
* The king’s own words.—Ciuvres Posthumes. 


i im i ee tie 


, = 


= ee ee 


i he gl a i i, a —————— ——— 


Sa a — CU 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 447 


then a fool, worthy of condemnation, for daring to do homage 
to the Muses and striving to make verses—l, the gray-haired 
old man who already counts fifty-six?” 

“You have the privilege of the gods! you will never 
grow old; and the Muses and Graces, though women, must 
ever remain faithful to you—you understand how to lay 
new chains upon them.” 

“No, no, sire! I am too old,” sighed Voltaire; “an old 
poet, an old lover, an old singer, and an old horse are alike 
useless things—good for nothing.* Well, your majesty can 
make me a little younger by reading me some of your 
verses.” 

Frederick stepped to his writing-desk, and, seating him- 
self, nodded to Voltaire to be seated also. 

“You must know,” said the king, handing Voltaire a 
sheet of paper covered with verses—* you must know that I 
have come with six twin brothers, who desire in the name of 
Apollo to be baptized in the waters of Hippocrene, and the 
*‘ Henriade’ is entreated to be godfather.” 

Voltaire took the paper and read the verses aloud. The 
king listened attentively, and nodded approvingly over Vol- 
taire’s glowing and passionate declamation. 

“This is grand! this is sublime!” eried Voltaire. 
“Your majesty is a French writer, who lives by accident in 
Germany. You have our language wholly in your power.” 

Frederick raised his finger threateningly. “ Friend, 
friend, shall I weary the gods again with my prayer?” 

“Your majesty, then, wishes to hear the whole truth?” 

“The whole truth! ” 

“Then you must allow me, sire, to read the verses once 
more. I read them the first time as an amateur, now I will 
read them as a critic.” 

As Voltaire now repeated the verses, he laid a sharp ac- 
cent upon every word and every imperfect rhyme; scanned 
every line with stern precision. Sometimes when he came 
to a false Alexandrine, he gave himself the appearance of 
being absolutely unable to force his lips to utter such bar- 
barisms; and then his eyes glowed with malicious fire, and a 
contemptuous smile played about his mouth. 

* Voltaire’s own words.—CEuvres Posthumes, p. 364. 


448 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI: OR, 


The king’s brow clouded. “I understand,” said he, 
“the poem is utterly unworthy—good for nothing. Let us 
destroy it.” 

“ Not so, sire—the poem is excellent, and it requires but 
a few day’s study to make it perfect. On the Venus di 
Medici no finger must be too long, no nail badly formed; 
and what are such statues, with which we deck our gardens, 
to the monuments of the library? We must, therefore, make 
your work perfect. There is infinite grace and intellect in 
this little poem. Where have you found such treasures, 
sire? How can your sandy soil yield such blossoms? How 
can such charming grace and profound learning be com- 
bined? * But even the Graces must stand upon a sure foot- 
ing, and here, sire, are a few feet which are too long. Truly, 
that is sometimes unimportant, but the work of a distin- 
guished genius should be perfect. You work too rashly, sire 
-—it is sometimes more easy to win a battle than to make a 
good poem. Your majesty loves the truth so well, that by 
speaking the truth in all sincerity I shall best prove to you 
my most profound reverence. All that you do must be 
perfectly done; you are fully endowed with the ability neces- 
sary. No one must say ‘Cesar est supra grammaticum,’ 
Cesar wrote as he fought, and was in both victorious. Fred- 
erick the Great plays the flute like Blavet, why should he 
not also write like the greatest of poets?+ But your maj- 
esty must not disdain to give to the beautiful sentiment, the 
great thought, a lovely and attractive form.” 

“Yes, you are right!” said Frederick; “I fail in that, 
but you must not think that it is from carelessness. Those 
of my verses which you have least criticised are exactly those 
which have cost me the least effort. When the sentiment 
and the rhyme come in competition, I make bad verses, and 
am not happy in my corrections. You cannot comprehend 
the difficulties I have to overcome in making a few tolerable 
verses. A happy combination by nature, an irrepressible 
and fruitful intellect, made you a great poet without any 
effort of your own. I feel and acknowledge the inferiority 
of my talent. I swim about in the ocean of poetry with my 


* Voltaire’s own words.—Ciuvres Posthumes, p. 329. 
t Ibid., p. 323. 


#REDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 449 


life-preserver under my arm. I do not write as well as I 
think. My ideas are stronger than my expressions; and in 
this embarrassment, I am often content if my verses are as 
little indifferent as possible, and do not expect them to be 
good.” * 

“Tt is entirely in your majesty’s power to make them 
perfect. With you, sire, it is as with the gods—‘I will!’ 
and itis done. If your majesty will condescend to adorn the 
Graces and sylphs, the sages and scholars, who stumble about 
in this sublime poem with somewhat rugged feet, with artis- 
tic limbs, they will flutter about like graceful genii, and step 
with majesty like the three kings of the East. Now let us 
try—we will write this poem again.” 

He made a long mark with a pen over the manuscript of 
the king, took a new sheet of paper, and commenced to write 
the first lines. He criticised every word with bitter humor, 
with flashing wit, with mocking irony. Inexorable in his 
censure, indifferent in his praise, his tongue seemed to be 
armed with arrows, every one of which was intended to 
strike and wound. 

The face of Frederick remained calm and clear. He did 
not feel that he was a mighty king and ruler, injured by the 
fault-finding of a common man. He was the pupil, with his 
accomplished teacher; and as he really wished to learn, he 
was indifferent as to the mode by which his stern master 
would instruct him. 

After this they read together a chapter from the king’s 
“ Histoire de Mon Temps.” A second edition was about to 
appear, and Voltaire had undertaken to correct it. He 
brought his copy with him, in order to give Frederick an ac- 
count of his corrections. 

“This book will be a masterwork, if your majesty will 
only take the pains to correct it properly? But has a king 
the time and patience ?—a king who governs his whole king- 
dom alone? Yes, it is this thought which confounds me! 
I eannot recover from my astonishment; it is this which 
makes me*so stern in my judgment of your writings. I con- 
sider it a holy duty.” 

“ And I am glad you are harsh and independent,” said 

* The king’s own words, p. 346. 


450 | BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


the king. “TI learn more from ten stern and critical words, 
than from a lengthy speech full of praise and acknowledg- 
ment! But tell me, now, what means this red mark, with 
which you have covered one whole side of my manuscript?” 

“Sire, this red mark asks for consideration for your 
grandfather, King Frederick the First; you have been harsh 
and cruel with him!” 

“T dared not be otherwise, unless I would earn for myself 
the charge of partiality,” said the king. “It shall not be 
said that I closed my eyes to his foolishness and absurdity 
because he was my grandfather. Frederick the First was a 
vain and pompous fool; this is the truth! ” 

“ And yet I entreat your grace for him, sire. I love this 
king because of his royal pomp, and the beautiful monument 
which he left behind him.” 

“Well, that was vanity, that posterity might speak of 
hini. From vanity he protected the arts; from vanity and 
foolish pride he placed the crown upon his head. His wife, 
the great Sophia Charlotte, was right when she said of him 
on her death-bed: ‘ The king will not have time to mourn for 
me; the interest he will take in solemnizing my funeral with 
pomp and regal splendor will dissipate his grief; and if 
nothing is wanting, nothing fails in the august and beautiful 
ceremony, he will be entirely comforted.’* He was only 
great in little things, and therefore when Sophia Charlotte 
received from her friend Leibnitz his memoir ‘ On the Power 
of Small Things,’ she said, smiling: ‘ Leibnitz will teach 
me to know small things; has he forgotten that I am the 
wife of Frederick the First, or does he think that I do not 
know my husband?’ ” 

“Well, I pray for grace for the husband on his wife’s ac- 
count. Sophia Charlotte was an exalted and genial woman; 
you should forgive her husband all other things, because he 
was wise enough to make her his wife and your grand- 
mother! And if your majesty reproaches him for the vanity 
of making himself king, that is a vanity from which his de- 
scendants have obtained some right solid advantages.” 

“The title appears to me not in the least disagreeable! 
The title is beautiful, when given by a free people, or earned 

* Thiébault. + Ibid. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 451 


by a prince. Frederick the First had done nothing to stamp 
him a king, and that condemns him.” 

“So let it be,” said Voltaire, shrugging his shoulders, 
“he is your grandfather, not mine. Do with him as you 
think best, sire; I have nothing more to say, and will content 
myself with softening a few phrases.” * 

When he saw that Frederick’s brow clouded at these 
words, he said, with a sly laugh: “ Look you, how the office 
of a teacher, which your majesty forced upon me, makes 
me insolent and haughty! I, who would do well to correct 
my own works, undertake to improve the writings of a king. 
I remind myself of the Abbot von Milliers, who has written 
a book called ‘ Reflections on the Faults of Others.’ On one 
occasion he went to hear a sermon of a Capuchin. The monk 
addressed his audience, in a nasal voice, in the following 
manner: ‘ My dear brothers in the Lord, I had intended to- 
day to discourse upon hell, but at the door of the church I 
have read a bill posted up, “ Reflections on the Faults of 
Others.” “Ha! my friend,” thought I, “why have you not 
rather made reflections over your own faults?” I will there- 
fore speak to you of the pride and arrogance of men!’” 

“Well, make such reflections always when occupied with 
the History of Louis the Fifteenth,” said the king, laughing; 
“ only, I beseech you, when you are with me, not to be con- 
verted by the pious Capuchin, but make your reflections on 
the faults of others only.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


A DAY IN THE LIFE OF VOLTAIRE., 


VOLTAIRE enjoyed the rare privilege of speaking the 
truth to the king, and he made a cruel and bitter use of his 
opportunities in this respect. He was jealous and envious 
of the king’s fame and greatness, and sought to revenge him- 


* This conversation of the king and Voltaire is historic. Voltaire tells it 
in a letter to Madame Denis. 


29 


452 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


self by continual fault-finding and criticism. He sought to 
mortify the great Frederick, who was admired and wondered 
at by all the world; to make him feel and confess that he 
could never equal the renowned writer Voltaire. _ 

Frederick felt and acknowledged this frankly and with- 
out shame, but with that smiling composure and great self- 
consciousness which is ever ready to do justice to others, 
and demands at the same time a just recognition of its own 
claims. Voltaire might exalt himself to the clouds, he 
could not depreciate the king. He often made him angry, 
however, and this gratified the malice of the great French 
author. 

The other friends of Frederick looked upon this conduct 
of Voltaire with regret; and the Marquis d’Argens, who was 
of a fine and gentle nature, soon saw the daily discontent of 
the king, and the wicked joy of Voltaire. 

““ My friend,” said he, “the king wrote a poem yesterday, 
which he read aloud to me this morning. He declares that 
there is one bad rhyme in his poem, and that it tortures him. 
I tried in vain to reassure him. I know that the rhyme is 
incorrect, but you will provoke him beyond measure if you 
tell him so. He has tried in vain to correct it, without im- 
‘pairing the sense of the passage. I have, therefore, with- 
held all criticism, and read to him some verses from La 
Fontaine, where the same fault is to be found. I have 
wished to convince him that the poem is worthy of praise, 
although not exactly conformed to rule. I beg of you, Vol- 
taire, to follow my example.” 

“ And why should I do that?” said Voltaire, in his most 
snarling tone. 

“ Because, with your severe and continual criticisms you 
will disgust the king, and turn him aside from his favorite 
pursuit. I think it important to poetry and the fine arts 
that the great and powerful sovereign of Prussia should love 
and cherish them; should exalt those who cultivate them, 
and, indeed, rank himself amongst them. What difference 
does it make, Voltaire, if a bad rhyme is to be found in the 
poetry of the philosopher of Sans-Souci?” * 

“The king wishes to learn of me how to make good 

* Thiébault, vol. v., p. 387. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 453 


poetry, and my love to him is not of that treasonable, woman- 
ly, and cowardly sort which shrinks from blaming him be- 
cause it fears to wound his self-love. The king has read his 
poem to you, and it is your province to wonder at and praise 
your friend. He will read it to me as ‘ Pedagogo de sua 
Maesta.’ I will be true and just, where you have dared to 
flatter him.” 

Never was Voltaire more severe in his criticism, more 
cutting in his satire, than to-day. His eyes sparkled with 
malicious joy, and a wicked smile played still upon his lip 
as he left the king and returned to his own apartment. 

“ Ah,” said he, seating himself at his writing-table, with 
a loud laugh, “I shall write well to-day, for I have had a les- 
son. Frederick does not know how far he is my benefactor. 
In correcting him, I correct myself; and in directing his 
studies, I gain strength and judgment for my own works.* 
I will now write a chapter in my History of Louis XIV. My 
style will be good. The chapter which I have read this 
morning, in Frederick’s ‘ Histoire de Mon Temps,’ has 
taught me what faults to avoid. Yes, I will write of Louis 
XIV. Truly I owe him some compensation. King Fred- 
erick has had the naiveté to compare his great grandfather, 
the so-called great Prince-Elector, to the great Louis. I 
was amiable enough to pardon him for this little compliment 
to his ancestors, and not to strike it from his ‘ Histoire’ 
And, indeed, why should I have done that? The world will 
not be so foolish as to charge this amusing weakness to me! 
After all, the king writes but for himself, and a few false, 
flattering friends; he can, therefore, say what he will. I, 
however, I write for France—for the world! But I fear, 
alas, that fools will condemn me, because I have sought to 
write as a wise man.” + 

Voltaire commenced to write, but he was soon interrupted 
by his servant, Tripot, who announced that the Jew Hirsch, 
for whom Voltaire had sent, was at the door. Voltaire rose 
hastily, and called him to enter. 

“T have business with you, my friend,” said he to the Jew. 
“ Close the door, Tripot, and see that we are not disturbed.” 

Voltaire hastened with youthful agility through the sa- 

* Voltaire’s own words.—(Euvres, p. 363. * uvres, p. 341. 


A454 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


loon, and beckoned to the Jew to follow him into his bed- 
room. 

“First of all, friend, we will make a small mercantile 
operation.” So saying, he opened the door of a large com- 
mode. “See, here are twelve pounds of the purest wax- 
lights. I am a poor man, with weak eyes. I have no use for 
these lights; I can never hope to profit by them. Here, also, 
are several pounds of sugar and coffee, the savings of the 
last two months. You will buy all this of me; we will agree 
upon a fixed price, and the last day of every month you will 
come for the same purpose. Name your price, sir.” 

Hirsch named his price; but it seemed that the great poet 
understood how to bargain better than the Jew. He knew 
exactly the worth of the sugar and the coffee, he spoke so 
eloquently of the beauty and purity of the thick white wax- 
lights, that the Hebrew increased his offer. 

“ And now to more important business,” said Voltaire. 
“You are going to Dresden—you will there execute a com- 
mission for me. I wish to invest eighteen thousand thalers 
in Saxon bonds. They can now be purchased at thirty-five, 
and will be redeemed at a hundred.” . 

“But, your excellency knows that the king has forbidden 
his subjects to buy these bonds. He demanded and obtained 
for his subjects a pledge that they should be paid at par 
for the bonds they now hold, while the subjects of the King 
of Saxony receive only their present value. The king prom- 
ised, however, that the Prussians should make no further in- 
vestments in these bonds. You see, then, that it is impos- 
sible for me to fulfil this commission.” 

“T see that you are a fool!” cried Voltaire, angrily. 
“Tf you were not a fool, you would know that Voltaire, the 
chamberlain of the king, would not undertake a business 
transaction which would stain his reputation or cast a shadow 
on his name. When Voltaire makes this investment, you 
can understand that he is authorized to do so.” 

“That being the case,” said Hirsch, humbly, “I am en- 
tirely satisfied, and will gladly serve your excellency.” 

“Tf you fill this commission handsomely and promptly, 
you may feel assured of a reward. Are you ambitious? 
Would you not like a title?” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 455 


“ Certainly I am ambitious. I should be truly happy if I 
could obtain the title of ‘royal court agent.’ ” 

“Well, buy these bonds for me in Dresden cheap, and 
you shall have this coveted title,” said the noble author of 
the “ Henriade,” and other world-renowned works. 

“T will buy them at thirty-five thalers.” 

“ And you will invest eighteen thousand thalers at this 
rate. Our contract is made; now we will count the gold. 
I have not the ready money—I will give you drafts—come 
into my study.—There are three drafts,” said he, “one on 
Paris, one on your father, and one on the Jew Ephraim. 
Get them cashed, good Hirsch, and bring me my Saxon 
bonds.” 

“Tn eight days, your excellency, I will return with them, 
and you will have a clear profit of eleven thousand thalers.” 

Voltaire’s eyes sparkled with joy. “Eleven thousand 
thalers!” said he; “for a poor poet, who lives by his wits 
and his pen, that is a considerable sum.” 

“You will realize that sum,” said Hirsch, with the sol- 
emn earnestness of a Jew when he has made a good trade. 

Hirsch was about to withdraw, but Voltaire hastened 
after him, and seizing his arm, he cried out threateningly: 
“You are not going without giving me your note? You do 
not think that I am such a fool as to give you eighteen thou- 
sand thalers, and have nothing to prove it?” 

“You excellency has my word of honor,” said the Jew, 
earnestly. 

Voltaire laughed aloud. “Your word! the honorable 
word of a man for eighteen thousand thalers! My dear 
friend, we do not live in paradise, but in a so-called Chris- 
tian city—your worthy forefathers obtained for us this priv- 
ilege. Do you believe that I will trust one of their descend- 
ants? Who will go my security that you will not nail my 
innocence and my confiding heart upon the cross, and slay 
them if I should be unsuspicious enough to trust my money 
with you in this simple way?” 

“T will give you ample security,” said Hirsch, taking a 
morocco case from his pocket. “I did not know why your 
excellency sent for me. I thought perhaps you wished to 
buy diamonds, and brought some along with me. Look, sir! 


456 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI: OR, 


here are diamonds worth twenty-two thousand thalers! I 
will leave them with you—l, the poor Jew, do not fear that 
the great poet Voltaire will deceive and betray me.” 

“These diamonds are beautiful,” said Voltaire—“ very 
beautiful, and perhaps if my speculation succeeds, I may 
buy some from you. Until then, I will take care of them.” 

Voltaire was about to lock them up, but he paused sud- 
denly, and fixed his eyes upon the calm countenance of the 
Jew. 

“How do I know that these are real diamonds?” he 
cried; and as Hirsch, exasperated by this base suspicion, 
frowned and turned pale, he exclaimed fiercely: “ The dia- 
monds are false! I know it by your terror. Oh, oh, you 
thought that a poet was a good, credulous creature who could 
be easily deceived. Ah! you thought I had heard nothing of 
those famous lapidaries in St. Germain, who cut diamonds 
from glass, and cook up in their laboratories the rarest 
jewels! Yes, yes, I know all these arts, and all the brewing 
of St. Germain will not suffice to deceive me.” 

“These diamonds are pure!” cried Hirsch. 

“We will have them tested by a Christian jeweller,” said 
Voltaire.—“ Tripot! Tripot! run quickly to the jeweller 
Reclam—beg him to come to me for a few moments.” 

Tripot soon returned with Reclam. The diamonds 
were pronounced pure and of the first water; and the jewel- 
ler declared they were fully worth twenty-two thousand tha- 
lers. Voltaire was now fully satisfied, and, when once more 
alone, he looked long and rapturously upon these glittering 
stones. 

“What woman can boast of such dazzling fire in her 
eyes?” said he, laughing; “ what woman can say that their 
color is worth twenty-two thousand thalers? It is true they 
glisten and shimmer in all lights and shades—that is their 
weakness and their folly. With you, beautiful gems! these 
changing hues are a virtue. Oh, to think that with this 
handful of flashing stones I could buy a bag of dueats! 
How dull and stupid are mankind—how wise is God! Sink- 
ing those diamonds in the bowels of the earth was a good 
speculation. They are truffles to tempt the snouts of men; 
and they root after them as zealously as the swine in Peri- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 457 


gord root after the true truffles. Gold! gold! that is the 
magic word with which the world is ruled. I will have gold— 
I will rule the world. I will not give place to dukes or princes. 
I will have my seigneuries and my castles; my servants in 
rich livery, and my obedient subjects. I will be a grand 
seigneur. Kings and princes shall visit me in my castle, 
and wait in my antechamber, as I have been compelled to 
wait in theirs. I will be rich that I may be every man’s 
master, even master of the fools. I will enslave the wise by 
my intellect—I will reduce the foolish to bondage with gold. 
I must be rich! rich! rich! therefore am I here; therefore 
do I correct the poor rhymes of the king; therefore do I live 
now as a modest poet, and add copper to copper, and save my 
pension of five thousand thalers, and sell my wax-lights and 
my coffee to the Jew. Let the world call me a miser. When 
I become rich, I will be a spendthrift; and men who are now 
envious and angry at my fame shall burst with rage at my 
fortune. Ah, ah, it is not worth the cost to be a celebrated 
writer! There are too many humiliations connected with 
this doubtful social position. It gives no rank—it is a pitiful 
thing in the eyes of those who have actual standing, and is 
only envied by those who are unnoticed and unknown. For 
my own part, I am so exhausted by the discomforts of my 
position, I would gladly cast it from me, and make for my- 
self what the canaille call a good thing—an enormous for- 
tune. I will scrape together all the gold that is possible. 
I will give for gold all the honor and freedom and fame 
which come to me. I am a rich gainer in all these things 
by my residence with King Frederick. He has this virtue: he 
is unprejudiced, and cares nothing even for his own royal 
rank. I will therefore remain in this haven, whither the. 
storms, which have so long driven me from shore to shore, 
have now safely moored me. My happiness will last just as 
long as God pleases.” * 

He laughed heartily, and took his cash-book, in which he 
entered receipts and expenditures. It was Voltaire’s great- 
est pleasure to add up his accounts from time to time, and 
gloat over the growth of his fortune; to compare, day by 
day, his receipts and expenses, and to find that a handsome 

* Voltaire’s own words.—(E£uvres, p. 110. 


\ 
7 


458 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


sum was almost daily placed to his credit. The smallest 
necessary expenditure angered him. With a dark frown he 
said to himself: “It is unjust and mean to require of me to 
buy provender for my horse, and to have my carriage re- 
paired; if the king furnishes me with an equipage, he should 
not allow it to be any expense to me. The major-domo is 
an old miser, who cheats me every month out of some pounds 
of sugar and coffee, and the wax-lights are becoming thinner 
and poorer. I will complain to King Frederick of all this; 
he must see that order prevails in his palace.” 

Voltaire closed his account-book, and murmured: “ When 
I have an income of a hundred and fifty thousand frances, I 
will cease to economize. God be praised, I have almost 
reached the goal! But,” said he, impatiently, “in order to 
effect this, I must remain here a few years, and add my pen- 
sion to my income. Nothing must prevent this—I must over- 
come every obstacle. What! who ean hinder me? my so-called 
friends, who naturally are my most bitter enemies? Ha, ha! 
what a romantic idea of this genial king to assemble six 
friends around him at Sans-Souci, the most of them being 
authors—that is to say, natural enemies! I believe if two 
authors, two women, or two pietists, were placed alone upon a 
desert isle, they would forget their dependence upon each 
other, and commence intriguing at once. This, alas! is 
humanity, and being so, one must withdraw from the poor 
affair advantageously and cunningly.* No one can live 
peacefully in this world; least of all, in the neighborhood of 
a king. It is with kings as with coquettes, their glances 
kindle jealousy—and Frederick is a great coquette. I must, 
therefore, drive my rivals from the field, and enjoy in peace 
the favor of the king. Now which of my rivals are danger- 
ous to me? All! all! I must banish them all! I will sow 
such discontent and rage and malice and strife amongst 
them, that they will fly in hot haste, and thank God if I do 
not bite off their noses before they escape. I will turn this, 
their laughing paradise, into a hell, and I will be the devil to 
chase them with glowing pitchforks. Yes, even to Siberia 
will I drive this long-legged peacock, Maupertius—him, first 
of all; then D’Argens, then Algarotti, then this over-wise 

* Voltaire, Giuvres, p. 3875. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 459 


and good Lord Marshal, and all others like him! When Vol- 
taire’s sun is in the ascendant, not even stars shall glitter. 
It shall not be! I will prove to them that Voltaire’s fiery 
rays have burned them to ashes! ”* 

He laughed aloud, and seated himself to write a poem. 
He was invited that evening to a soirée by the queen-mother, 
where he wished to shine as an improvisator. Above all 
other things, he wished to win the heart of the Princess 
Amelia. Since she had played the part of Aurelia, in 
“Rome Sauvée,” he had felt a passion for the princess, 
who had betrayed to the life the ardor and the pains of 
love, and whose great flaming eyes seemed, from their mys- 
terious depths, to rouse the soul of the poet. Voltaire had 
promised the Princess Amelia to improvise upon any subject 
she should select, and he relied upon his cunning to incline 
her choice in such a direction as to make the poem he was 
now writing appropriate and seem impromptu. 

While thus occupied, his servant entered and announced 
a number of distinguished gentlemen, who were in the parlor, 
and wished to make the great author a morning visit. “ Let 
them all wait!” said Voltaire, angrily; declaring that this 
disturbance had cost him a piquant rhyme. i 

“ But, gracious sir,” stammered the servant, “some of the 
most distinguished men of the court and the oldest generals, 
are there!” 

“ What do I care for their epaulets or their excellencies? 
Let them wait, or go to the devil—if they prefer it.” 

Well, the eminent gentlemen waited; indeed, they waited 
patiently, until the great Voltaire, the favorite of the king, 
the universal French author, in his pride and arrogance was 
graciously pleased to show himself amongst the Dutch bar- 
barians, and allow some rays of his intellect to fall upon and 
inspire them! 

The saloon was indeed crowded with princes, generals, 
and nobles. Voltaire had just returned to Berlin from Pots- 
dam, and all hastened to pay their respects and commend 
themselves to his grace and favor.t 


* Voltaire, Huvres, p. 378. 

+ Forney writes thus in his “Memoirs”: “ During the winter months 
which Voltaire spent in the palace of Berlin, he was the favorite of the 
court. Princes, ambassadors, ministers, generals, nobles of the highest rank, 


460 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Voltaire was very gracious this morning. As he was to 
play the part of improvisator that night, he thought it politic 
to make favor with all those who would be present. He hoped 
that all the world would thunder out their enraptured ap- 
plause, and that Maupertius, D’Argens, Algarotti, La Met- 
trie, and all other friends of the king, would be filled with envy 
and rage. He smiled, therefore, benignantly, and had kind 
and flattering words for all. His bon-mots and piquant witti- 
cisms seemed inexhaustible. 

Suddenly his servant drew near, and said it was necessary 
to speak to him on a matter of great importance. Voltaire 
turned with a winning smile to his guests, and, praying them 
to wait for his return, entered his private room. 

“Well, Tripot, what have you to say that is important?” 

“ Gracious sir, the court is in mourning.” 

Voltaire looked at him enraged. “ Fool! what is that 
to me?” 

“Tt is of the utmost importance to you, sir, if you are go- 
ing this evening to the soirée of the queen-mother.” 

“Will you run me mad, Tripot? What has the court 
mourning to do with the queen’s soirée? ” 

“Gracious sir, the explanation is very simple. When 
the court is in mourning, no one can appear there in embroid- 

ered clothes; you must wear a plain black coat.” 

“I have no plain black coat,” said Voltaire, with a frown- 
ing brow. 

“Tt is necessary, then, for you to order one, and I have 
~sent Monsieur Pilleneure to come and take your measure.” 

“ Are you insane, Tripot?” cried Voltaire. “Do you re- 
gard me as so vile a spendthrift, so brainless a fool, as to 
order a new coat for the sake of one evening’s amusement— 
a coat which will cost an immense sum of money, and must 
then hang in the wardrobe to be destroyed by moths? In 
eight days this mourning will be over, and I would be several 
hundred franes poorer, and possess a black coat I could never 
wear! I will not go this evening to the soirée of the queen- 


went to his morning receptions, and were often received by him with con- 
temptuous scorn. A great prince was pleased to play chess with him, and 
allowed him every time to win the stake of two louis d’or. It was declared, 
however, that sometimes the gold disa peared before the end of the game, 
and could not be found.”—“ Souvenirs E un Citoyen.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 461 


mother; this is decided. I will announce myself sick. Go 
and countermand the tailor.” 

He turned to leave the room, but paused suddenly. “I 
cannot decline this invitation,” murmured he. “It is widely 
known that I have promised to improvise. The world is 
looking on eagerly. If I do not go, or if I announce myself 
sick, they will say I shrink from this ordeal. My enemies 
will triumph!—Tripot, I am obliged to go to the soirée of 
the queen.” 

“Then the tailor must come to take your measure?” 

“Fool!” cried Voltaire, stamping furiously. “I have 
told you I have no gold for such follies. Gather up your 
small amount of understanding, and think of some other ex- 
pedient.” 

“Well, your excellency, I know a mode of escape from 
this embarrassment, but I scarcely dare propose it.” 

“ Speak out—any means are good which attain their ob- 
ject.” 

“ Below, in the court, dwells the merchant Fromery. His 
servant is my very good friend. I have learned from him 
that his master has just purchased a beautiful black coat. 
I think he has about the figure of your excellency.” 

“ Ah, I understand,” said Voltaire, whose countenance 
became clearer. ‘“ You will borrow for me, from your friend, 
the coat of his master?” 

“Yes, if your excellency is not offended at my proposal?” 

“On the contrary, I find the idea capital. Go, Tripot, 
and borrow the coat of Fromery.” 

Voltaire returned once more to his distinguished guests, 
and enraptured them again by his witty slanders and bril- 
liant conversation. As the last visitor departed, he rang 
for his servant. 

“Well, Tripot, have you the coat?” 

“T have, your excellency.” 

Voltaire rubbed his hands with delight. “It seems this 
is a happy day for me—I make the most advantageous busi- 
ness arrangements.” 

“But it will be necessary for your grace to try on this 
coat. I fear it is too large; since I saw Fromery, he has 
grown fat.” 


462 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“The ass!” cried Voltaire. ‘ How does he dare to fat- 
ten, when all the people of intellect and celebrity, like my- 
self, grow thinner every day?” So saying, he put on the 
coat of the merchant Fromery. “ Yes, truly, it is far too 
large for me. Oh, oh! to think that the coat of a pitiful 
Dutch tradesman is too large for the great French poet! 
Well, that is because these Dutch barbarians think of noth- 
ing but gormandizing. They puff up their gross bodies with 
common food, and they daily become fatter; but the spirit 
suffers. Miserable slaves of their appetites, they are of no 
use themselves, and their coats are also useless! ” 

“Does your excellency believe that it is impossible to 
wear the coat?” 

“Do I believe it is impossible? Look at me! Do I not 
look like a hungry heir in the testamentary coat of his rich 
cousin the brewer? Would it not be thought that I was a 
scarecrow, to drive the birds from the cornfields?” 

At this moment Monsieur Pilleneure was announced. 

“Good Heaven! I forgot to countermand the tailor!” 
cried Tripot. : 

“That is fortunate!” said Voltaire, calming himself. 
“God sends this tailor here to put an end to my vexations. 
This coat is good and handsome, only a little too large—the 
tailor will alter it immediately.” 

“That will be splendid!” said ‘Tripot. “ He will take 
in the seams, and to-morrow enlarge it again.” 

“Not so!” cried Voltaire. “The coat could not pos- 
sibly look well; he must cut away the seams.” 

“But then,” said Tripot, hesitatingly, “ Fromery could 
never wear his coat again.” 

“Fromery will learn that Voltaire has done him the 
honor to borrow his coat, and I think that will be a sufficient 
compensation. Tell the tailor to enter.” 

Thanks to the adroitness of Pilleneure, Voltaire ap- 
peared at the soirée of the queen-mother in a handsome, 
well-fitting black coat. No one guessed that the mourning 
dress of the celebrated French writer belonged to the mer- 
chant Fromery, and that the glittering diamond agraffes in 
his bosom, and the costly rings on his fingers, were the prop- 
erty of the Jew Hirsch. Voltaire’s eyes were more sparkling 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 463 


than diamonds, and the glances which he fixed upon the 
Princess Amelia more glowing; her pale and earnest beauty 
inspired him to finer wit and richer hymns of praise. 

No one dared to say that this passionate adoration offered 
to the princess was unbecoming and offensive to etiquette. 
Voltaire was the man of his age, and therefore justified in 
offering his worship even to a princess. He was also the 
favorite of the king, who allowed him privileges granted 
to no other man. There was one present, however, who 
found these words of passion and of rapture too bold, and 
that one was King Frederick. He had entered noiselessly 
and unannounced, as was his custom, and he saw, with a de- 
risive smile, how every one surrounded Voltaire, and all 
were zealous in expressing their rapture over his improvised 
poem, and entreating him to repeat it. 

“How can I repeat what I no longer know?” said he. 
“ An angel floated by me in the air, and, by a glance alone, 
she whispered words which my enraptured lips uttered as in 
a wild hallucination.” 

“ The centuries to come are to be pitied if they are to be. 
deprived of this enchanting poem,” said the Princess Amelia. 
She had remarked the entrance of the king, knew that his 
eye was fixed upon her, and wished to please him by flatter- 
ing his beloved favorite. 

“Tf your royal highness thinks thus, I will now write out 
a poem which I had designed only to recite,” said Voltaire, 
seating himself at the card-table; and, taking a card and 
pencil, he wrote with a swift hand and handed the card, bow- 
ing profoundly. 

The king, who was a silent spectator of this scene, looked 
at the Princess Amelia, and saw that she blushed as she 
read, and her brow was clouded. . 

“ Allow me, also, to read the poem of the great Voltaire, 
my sister,” said the king, drawing near. 

The princess handed him the ecard, and while Frederick 
read, all stood around him in respectful silence. 

“This poem is sublime,” said the king, smiling. He saw 
that the princess was no longer grave, and that Voltaire 
breathed freely, as if relieved from a great apprehension. 
“This little poem is so enchanting, that you must allow me 


464 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


to copy it, my sister. Go on with your conversation, mes- 
sieurs, it does not disturb me.” 

A request from the lips of a king is a command; all ex- 
erted themselves therefore to keep up a gay and animated 
conversation, and to seem thoughtless and unoccupied. 
Frederick seated himself at the table, and read once more the 
poem of Voltaire, which was as follows: 

“ Souvent un peu de vérité 
Se méle au plus grossier mensonge. 
Cette nuit dans l’erreur d’un songe, 
Au rang des rois j’étais monté, 
Je vous aimais alors, et j’osais vous le dire, 
Les dieux 4 mon reveil ne m’ont pas tout 6té, 
Je n’ai perdu que mon empire.” 


“Tnsolent!” cried the king, and his scornful glance 
wandered away to Voltaire, who was seated near the queen 
engaged in lively conversation. ‘ We will damp his ardor,” 
said he, smiling; and, taking a card, he commenced writing 
hastily. 

Truly at this moment the stern master Voltaire might 
have been content with his royal pupil; the rhymes were 
good and flowed freely. When Frederick had finished his 
poem, he put Voltaire’s card in his bosom and drew near to 
the princess. 

“The poem is piquant,” said he; “read it yourself, and 
then ask Voltaire to read it aloud.” 

Amelia looked strangely at the king, but as she read, a 
soft smile lighted up her lovely, melancholy face. Bowing 
to her brother, she said in low tones, “I thank your high- 
ness.” 

“Now give the card to Voltaire, and ask him to read it,” 
said the king. 

Voltaire took the card, but as he read he did not smile 
as the princess had done—he turned pale and pressed his lips 
tightly together. 

“ Read it,” said the king. 

“T beg your pardon,” said Voltaire, who had immediately 
recovered his self-possession; “this little poem, so hastily 
composed, was not worthy of the exalted princess to whom I 
dared address it. Your majesty will be graciously pleased 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 465 


to remember that it was born in a moment, and the next in- 
stant lost its value. As I now read it, I find it dull and 
trivial. You will not be so cruel as to force me to read aloud 
to your majesty that which I condemn utterly.” 

“Oh, le coquin!” murmured Frederick, while Voltaire, 
with a profound bow, placed the card in his pocket. 

When the soirée was over, and Voltaire returned to his 
rooms, the gay and genial expression which he had so care- 
fully maintained during the evening disappeared; and his 
lips, which had smiled so kindly, muttered words of cursing 
and bitterness. He ordered Tripot to arrange his writing- 
table and leave the room. Being now alone, he drew the 
card from his bosom, and, as if to convince himself that what 
he saw was truth and no cruel dream, he read aloud, but with 
a trembling voice: 

“ On remarque, pour l’ordinaire, 
Qu’un songe est analoque a notre caractére, 
Un héros peut réver, qu’il a passé le Rhin, 
Un chien qu'il aboie 4 la lune; 
Un joueur, qu’il a fait fortune, 
Un voleur, qu’il a fait butin. 
Mais que Voltaire, 4 l’aide d’un mensonge, 
Ose se croire roi lui que n’est qu’un faquin, 
Ma fois! c’est abuser du songe.” 


“So I am already a scoundrel?” said Voltaire, grinning. 
“My enemies triumph, and he who a short time since was 
called the wise man of the age, the Virgil of France, is noth- 
ing but a scoundrel! This time, I confess, I merited my 
humiliation, and the consciousness of this increases my 
rage. I am a good-humored, credulous fool. Why was I 
so silly as to credit the solemn protestations of the king that 
I should never feel his superior rank; that he would never 
show himself the master? If I dare to claim an equality 
with him for an instant, he swings his rod of correction, 
and I am bowed in the dust! Voltaire is not the man to 
bow patiently. The day shall come in which I will revenge 
with rich interest the degradation of this evening. But 
enough of anger and excitement. I will sleep; perhaps in 
happy dreams I shall wander from the chilly borders of the 
Spree to my own beautiful Paris.” 


466 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


He called Tripot, and commanded him to announce to 
-Fredersdorf that he was ill, and could not accompany the 
king to Potsdam in the morning. 

He then retired, and the gods, perhaps, heard his prayer, 
and allowed him in dreams to look upon Paris, where the 
Marquis de Pompadour reigned supreme, and the pious 
priests preached against the Atheist Voltaire, to whom the 
great-hearted King of Prussia had given an asylum. Per- 
haps he saw in his dreams the seigneurie of his glittering 
future, and his beautiful house at Ferney, where he built 
a temple, with the proud inscription, “ Voltaire Deo 
erextt!” 

At all events, his dreams must have been pleasant and 
refreshing. He laughed in his sleep; and his countenance, 
which was so often clouded by base and wicked passions, 
was bright and clear; it was the face of a poet, who, with 
closed eyes, looked up into the heaven of heavens. 

The morning came, and Voltaire still slept—even the 
rolling of the carriages aroused him but for a moment; he 
wrapped himself up in his warm bed, the soft eider down 
of his pillow closed over his head and made him invisible. 
Tripot came lightly upon tiptoe and removed the black 
coat of the merchant Fromery. Voltaire heard nothing; he 
slept on. And now the door was noisily opened, and a 
young woman, with fresh, rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, 
entered the room; she was dressed as a chambermaid, a 
little white coquettish cap covered her hair, and a white 
apron with a little bodice was laced over her striped woollen 
robe. Upon her white, naked arm she carried linen which 
she threw carelessly upon the floor, and drew with rash steps 
near the bed. Voltaire still slept, and was still invisible. 

The young chambermaid, believing that he had gone 
with the king to Potsdam, had come to arrange the rvom; 
with a quick movement she seized the bed with her sinewy 
hands and threw it off. A wild cry was heard! a white 
skeleton figure rose from the bed, now lying in the middle of 
the chamber, and danced about the floor with doubled fists 
and wild curses. The girl uttered a shriek of terror and 
rushed from the room; and if the form and the nightcap had 
not been purely white, she would have sworn she had seen 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 467 


the devil in person, and that she had cast him out from the 
bed of the great French poet.* 


CHAPTER X. 


THE LOVERS. 


THE day of grace was at an end. The four weeks which 
the king had granted to his sister, in order that she might 
take counsel with herself, were passed, and the heart of the 
princess was unmoved—only her face was changed. Amelia 
hid her pallor with rouge, and the convulsive trembling of 
her lips with forced smiles; but it was evident that her 
cheeks became daily more hollow, and her eyes more in- 
flamed. Even the king remarked this, and sent his physician 
to examine her eyes. The princess received this erry 
of the king with a bitter, icy smile. 

“The king is very good; but I am not iI do not 
suffer.” 

“But, your royal highness, your eyes suffer. They are 
weak and inflamed: allow me to examine them.” 

“Yes, as my brother has commanded it; but I warn you, 
you cannot heal them.” 

Meckel, the physician, examined her eyes with the closest 
attention, then shook his head thoughtfully. 

“Princess,” said he at last, in low, respectful tones, “ if 
you grant your eyes no rest; if, instead of sleeping quietly, 
you pass the night pacing your room; if you continue to ex- 
haust your eyes by constant weeping, the most fatal conse- 
quences may result.” 

“Do you mean I will become blind?” said Amelia, 
quietly. 

“T mean your eyes are suffering; that, however, is no 
acute disease; but your whole nervous system is in a danger- 
ous condition, and all this must be rectified before your eyes 
can be healed.” 


* Thiébault, v., 281. 
30 


468 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI: OR, 


“ Prescribe something, then, as his majesty has command- 
ed it,” said Amelia, coldly. | 

“TIT will give your royal highness a remedy; but it is of 
so strong and dangerous a nature, that it must be used only 
with the utmost caution. It is a liquid; it must be heated, 
and you must allow the steam to pass into your eyes. Your 
highness must be very, very careful. The substances in this 
mixture are so strong, so corrosive, that if you approach too 
near the steam, it will not only endanger your eyes, but your 
face and your voice. You must keep your mouth firmly 
closed, and your eyes at least ten inches above the vessel 
from which the steam is rising. Will your highness remem- 
ber all this, and act as I have directed? ” 

“T will remember it,” said Amelia, replying only to the 
first part of his question. 

Meckel did not remark this. He wrote his prescription 
and withdrew, once more reminding Amelia of the caution 
necessary. 

As has been said,.this was the last day of grace. The 
princess seemed calm and resigned. Even to her confidential 
maid she uttered no complaints. The steaming mixture was 
prepared, and, while Amelia held herself some distance 
above it, as the physician had commanded, she said laughing- 
ly to Ernestine: “I must strive to make my eyes bright, 
that my brother may be pleased, or at least that he may not 
be excited against me.” 

The prescription seemed to work wonders. The eyes of 
the princess were clear and bright, and upon her cheeks 
burned that dark, glowing carnation, which an energetic will 
and a strong and bold resolve sometimes call into life. 

“Now, Ernestine, come! make me a careful and tasteful 
toilet. It seems to me that this is my wedding-day; that I 
am about to consecrate myself forever to a beloved friend.” 

“ Oh, princess, let it be thus!” cried Fraulein von Haak, 
imploringly. “Constrain your noble heart to follow the 
wishes of the king, and wed the King of Denmark.” 

Amelia looked at her, amazed and angry. “ You know 
that Trenck has received my warning, and has replied to me. 
He will listen to no suggestions; under no pretext, will he be 
influenced to cross the borders of Prussia, not even if full 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 469 


pardon and royal grace are offered him. I need not, there- 
fore, be anxious on his account.” 

“That being the case, your royal highness should now 
think a little of your own happiness. You should seek to be 
reconciled to your fate—to yield to that which is unalterable. 
The king, the royal family, yes, the whole land will rejoice 
if this marriage with the King of Denmark takes place. Oh, 
princess, be wise! do willingly, peacefully, what you will 
otherwise be forced to do! Consent to be Queen of Den- 
mark.” 

“You have never loved, Ernestine, and you do not know 
that it is a crime to break a holy oath sworn unto God. But 
let us be silent. I know what is before me—I am prepared!” 

With calm indifference, Amelia completed her toilet; 
then stepped to the large Psyche, which stood in her boudoir, 
and examined herself with a searching eye. 

“T think there is nothing in my appearance to enrage the 
king. I have laid rouge heavily upon my cheeks, and, thanks 
to Meckel’s prescription, my eyes are as brilliant as if they 
had shed no tears. If I meet my brother with this friendly, 
happy smile, he will not remark that my cheeks are sunken. 
He will be content with me, and perhaps listen to my 
prayers.” 

Ernestine regarded her with a sad and troubled glance. 
“You look pale, princess, in spite of your rouge, and your 
laugh lacerates the heart. There is a tone, a ring in it, like 
a broken harp-string.” 

“Still,” said Amelia, “still, Ernestine! my hour has 
come! I goto the king. Look, the hand of the clock points 
to twelve, and I ask an audience of the king at this hour. 
Farewell, Ernestine! Ernestine, pray for me.” 

She wrapped herself in her mantle, and stepped slowly 
and proudly through the corridors to the wing of the castle 
occupied by the king. Frederick received her in his library. 
He advanced to the door to meet her, and with a kindly smile 
extended both his hands. 

* Welcome, Amelia, a thousand times welcome! Your 
coming proves to me that your heart has found the strength 
which I expected; that my sweet sister has recovered herself, 
her maidenly pride, fully. 


470 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI: OR, 


“The proud daughter of the Hohenzollerns is here to say 
to the king—‘ The King of Denmark demands my hand. I 
will bestow it upon him. My father’s daughter dare not wed 
beneath her. She must look onward and upward. There is 
no myrtle-wreath for me, but a crown is glittering, and I ac- 
cept it. God has made both heart and brain strong enough 
to bear its weight. I shall be no happy shepherdess, but I 
shall be a great and good queen; I will make others happy.’ ” 

“You have come, Amelia, to say this to the king; but 
you have also come to say to your brother—‘ I am ready to 
fulfil your wishes. I know that no selfish views, no am- 
bitious plans influence you. I know that you think only 
of my prosperity and my happiness; that you would save me 
from misfortune, humiliation, and shame; that you would 
guard me from the mistakes and wezknesses of my own 
heart. I accede to your wish, my brother—I will be queen 
of Denmark?’ Now, Amelia,” said Frederick, with an 
agitated voice, “have I not rightly divined? Have you not 
sought me for this purpose?” | 

“No, my brother, no, no!” cried Amelia, with wild, 
gushing tears. “No; I have come to implore your pity, 
your mercy.” Completely beside herself, mad with passion 
and pain, she fell upon her knees and raised her arms en- 
treatingly to the king. ‘“ Mercy, my brother, merey! Oh, 
spare my poor, martyred heart! Leave me at least the lib- 
erty to complain and to be wretched! Do not condemn me 
to marry Denmark!” 

Frederick stepped backward, and his brow darkened; 
but he controlled his impatience, and drew near his sister 
with a kindly smile, and gently raising her from her knees, 
he led her to the divan. 

“Come, Amelia, it does not become you to kneel to a 
man—to God only should a princess kneel. Let us be seated, 
and speak to each other as brother and sister should speak 
who love and wish to understand each other.” 

“T am ready for all else, I will accommodate myself to 
all else—only be merciful! Do not compel me to wed Den- 
mark!” 

“ Ah, see, my sister, although you are struggling against 
me, how justly you comprehend your position!” said the 


ae 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 471 


king, mildly. “ You speak of wedding Denmark. Your ex- 
alted and great destiny sleeps in these words. A princess 
when she marries does not wed a man, but a whoie people; 
she does not only make a man but a nation happy. There 
are the weeping, whose tears she will dry; the poor, whose 
hunger she will assuage; the unhappy, to whom she will bring 
consolation; the sick and dying, with whom she will pray. 
There is a whole people advancing to meet her with shouts of 
gladness, stretching out their hands, and asking for love. 
God has blessed the hearts of queens with the power to love 
their subjects, because they are women. Oh, my sister, this 
is a great, a noble destiny which Providence offers you—to 
be the beneficent, mediating, smiling angel, standing ever 
by the side of a king—a bond of love between a king and his 
subjects! Truly one might well offer up their poor, pitiful 
wishes, their own personal happiness, for such a noble des- 
tiny.” 

“T have no more happiness to offer up,” sighed Amelia. 
“T have no happiness; I do not ask so much. I plead for 
the poor right of living for my great sorrow—of being faith- 
ful to myself.” . 

“He only is faithful to himself who lives to discharge his 
duties,” said the king. “He only is true to himself who 
governs himself, and if he cannot be happy, at least endeay- 
ors to make others so, and this vocation of making others 
happy is the noblest calling for a woman; by this shall she 

-overeome her selfishness and find comfort, strength, and 
peace. And who, my sister, can say that he is happy? Our 
life consists in unfulfilled wishes, vain hopes destroyed, 
ideals, and lost illusions. Look at me, Amelia. Have I ever 
been happy? Do you believe that there is a day of my life I 
would live over? Have I not, from my earliest youth, been 
acquainted with grief, self-denial, and pain? Are not all 
the blossoms of my life broken? Am I not, have I not ever 
been, the slave of my rank?—a man, ‘ cabined, cribbed, con- 
fined,’ though I appear to be a great king? Oh, I will not re- 
late what I have suffered—how my heart has been lacerated 
and trampled upon! I will only say to you, that, notwith- 
standing this, I have never wished to be other than I am, 
that I have been always thankful for my fate; glad to be 


472 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI: OR, 


born to a throne, and not in a miserable hut. Believe me, 
Amelia, a sublime misfortune is better, more glorious, than 
a petty happiness. To have the brow wounded, because the 
crown presses too heavily upon the temples, is more desirable 
than to breathe out your sorrows in the midst of poverty and 
vulgarity, then sink into a dark and unknown grave. God, 
who has, perhaps, denied us the blessing of love, gives fame 
as a compensation. If we are not happy, we are powerful!” 

“ Ah, my brother, these are the views of a man and a 
king,” said Amelia. “I am a poor, weak woman. For me 
there is no fame, no power!” 

“Tsabella of Spain and Elizabeth of England were also 
women, and their fame has extended through centuries.” 

“They, however, were independent queens. I can be 
nothing more than the wife of a king. Oh, my brother, let 
me remain only the sister of a king! Let there be no change 
in my fate—let all remain as itis! This is my only hope— 
my only prayer! My heart is dead, and every wish is buried 
—let it suffice, my brother! Do not ask the impossible!” 

The king sprang from -his seat, and his eyes glowed with 
scorn. “It is, then, all in vain!” said he, fiercely. “ You 
will listen neither to reason nor entreaty!” 

“ Oh, sire, have merey—I cannot wed the King of Den- 
mark! ” 

“You cannot!” cried the king; “ what does that mean?” 

“ That means that I have sworn never to become the wife 
of another than of him whom I love; that means that I have 
sworn to die unmarried, unless ‘I go to the altar with my be- 
loved!” 

“This wild, mad wish can never be fulfilled!” said the 
king, threateningly. “You will marry—I, the king, com- 
mand it!” 

“Command me not, my brother!” cried Amelia, proudly, 
“command me not! You stand now upon the extremest 
boundary of your power; it will be easy now to teach you 
that a king is powerless against a firm, bold will!” 

“Ah! you threaten me! ” 

“No, I pray to you—I pray wildly to your hard heart for 
pity! I clasp your knees—I pray to you, as the wretched, 
the hopeless pray to God—have mercy upon my torment, 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 473 


pity my unspeakable anguish! I am a poor, weak woman— 
oh, have mercy! My heart bleeds from a thousand wounds 
—comfort, heal it! I am alone, and oh, how lonely !—be 
with me, my brother, and protect and shield me! Oh, my 
brother! my brother! it is my life, my youth, my future 
which cries out to you! Mercy! grace! Drive me not to. 
extremity! Be merciful, as God is merciful! Force me not 
into rebellion against God, against Nature, against myself! 
Make me not an unnatural daughter, an unthankful sister, a 
disobedient subject! My God! My God! Oh, let your 
heart be touched! I cannot wed the King of Denmark— 
say not that I shall!” 

“ And if I still say it? If, by the power of my authority, 
as your brother and your king, I command you to obey?” 

“T may perhaps die, but your command will have no other 
result,” said she, rising slowly, and meeting the enraged 
glance of the king with a proud and calm aspect. “ You 
have not listened to my prayers; well, then, I pray no more. 
But I swear to you, and God in heaven hears my oath, I 
will never marry! Now, my king, try how far your power 
reaches; what you may do and dare; how far you may pre- 
vail with a woman who struggles against the tyranny of her 
destiny. You can lead an army into desperate battle; you 
can conquer provinces, and make thrones totter to their base, 
but you cannot force a woman to do what she is resolved 
against! You cannot break my will! I repeat my oath—I 
swear I will never marry! ” 

A ery of rage burst from the lips of the king; with a 
hasty movement he advanced and seized the arm of the prin- 
cess; then, however, as if ashamed of his impetuosity, he re- 
leased her and stepped backward. 

“Madame,” said he, “you will wed the King of Den- 
mark. This is my unchangeable purpose, my inexorable 
command! The time of mourning for his dead wife is 
passed; and he has, through a special ambassador, renewed 
his suit for your hand. I will receive the ambassador to- 
morrow morning in solemn audience. I will say to him that 
I am ready to bestow the hand of my sister upon the King 
of Denmark. To-morrow you will be the bride and in four 
weeks you will be the wife of the King of Denmark! ” 


474 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ And if I repeat to you, that I will never be his wife?” 
_“ Madame, when the king commands, no one in his realm 
dare say ‘I will not!’ Farewell—to-morrow morning, 
then!” He bowed, left the room, and closed the door behind 
him. 

Amelia sighed heavily, then slowly and quietly, even as 
she had come, she walked through the corridors, and as she 
passed by her maids she greeted them with a soft smile. 
Ernestine wished to follow her to her boudoir, but she nod- 
ded to her to remain outside; she entered and closed the 
door. She was alone; a wild shriek burst from her lips; 
with a despairing movement she raised her arms to heaven, 
then sank powerless, motionless to the floor. 

How long she lay there; what martyrdom, what tortures 
her heart endured in those hours of solitude, who can know? 
It was twilight when Princess Amelia opened the door and 
bade her friend, Fraulein von Haak, enter. 

“Oh, princess, dearly-beloved princess,” she said, weep- 
ing bitterly, pressing Amelia’s hand to her lips, “God be 
thanked that I see you again!” 

“Poor child!” said Amelia, gently, “poor child! You 
thought I would destroy myself! is it not so, Ernestine? 
No, no, I must live! A dark and sad foreboding tells 
me that a day will come when Trenck will need me; 
when my life, my strength, my assistance’ will be nec- 
essary to him. I will be strong! I will live, and await that 
day!” 

With calm indifference she now began to speak of tri- 
fling things, and listened kindly to all Ernestine related. 
There was, however, a certain solemnity in her movements, 
in her smile, in every word she uttered; her eyes turned 
from time to time with an indescribable expression to 
oa and anxious, alarmed sighs fell trembling from her 
ips. 

At last the long and dreary hours of the evening were 
over. It was night. Amelia could dismiss her maids and be 
once more alone. They brought the spirit-lamp, upon which 
stood the vessel containing the steaming mixture for her 
eyes; she directed them to place it near, and go quietly to 
sleep. She would undress herself and read a while before 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 475 


she went to bed. She embraced Fraulein von Haak, and 
charged her to sleep peacefully. 

“You have promised,” whispered Ernestine, lightly, 
“you will live! ” 

“T will live, for Trenck will one day need me. Good- 
night!” 

She kissed Ernestine upon the brow and smiled upon her 
till the door clesed—then pressed the bolt forward hastily, 
and rushed forward to the large mirror, which reflected her 
image clearly and distinctly. With a curious expression 
she contemplated her still lovely, youthful, and charming 
image, and her lips lightly whispered, “ Farewell, thou whom 
Trenck loved! Farewell, farewell!” she greeted her image 
with a weary smile, then stepped firmly to the table, where 
the mixture hissed and bubbled, and the dangerous steam 
ascended. 

The next morning loud shrieks and groans were heard in 
the bedroom of the princess. Amelia’s maids had come to 
arrange her toilet, and found her stretched upon her couch, 
with disfigured face, with bloody eyes, which, swollen and 
rigid, appeared almost torn from their sockets! They ran 
for the physician, for the queen, for the king; all was con- 
fusion, excitement, anguish. 

Ernestine knelt weeping by the bed of the princess, and 
implored her to say what frightful accident had so disfigured 
her. Princess Amelia was incapable of reply! Her lips 
were convulsively pressed together; she could only stammer 
out a few inarticulate sounds. 

At last Meckel arrived, and when he saw the inflamed, 
swollen face, the eyeballs starting from their sockets, and 
then the vessel containing the powerful mixture upon the 
table, he was filled with horror. 

“ Ah, the unhappy!.” murmured he; “she did not regard 
my warning. She drew too near the noxious vapor, and it 
has entered not only her eyes but her windpipe; she will 
suffer much, and never be wholly restored! ” 

Amelia understood these words, which were addressed to 
Fraulein von Haak, and a horrible wild laugh burst from her 
bloody, skinless lips. 

“ Will she recover?” asked Fraulein von Haak. 


476 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ She will recover, but her eyes will be always deformed 
and her voice is destroyed. I will hasten to the apothecary’s 
and prepare soothing ointments.” 

He withdrew, and now another door opened, and the 
king entered. With hasty steps, and greatly excited, he 
drew near the bed of the princess. As he looked upon her 
deformed countenance, her bleeding, rigid eyes, he uttered 
a ery of horror, and bowed down over his sister. 

She gazed up at him steadily; tried to open her lips; 
tried to speak, but only a dull, hollow sound was heard. 
Now she slightly raised herself up with a powerful effort of 
strength, and moved her hand slowly over the white wall 
near her bed. 

“She wishes to write,” said the king; “perhaps she will 
tell the cause of her sufferings. Give her something quick- 
ly! there—a coal from the chimney! ” 

Fraulein von Haak brought the coal, and Amelia wrote, 
with trembling hand, in great, irregular letters, these words 
upon the wall: 

“Now I will not wed the King of Denmark!—now I 
shall never marry!” then fell back on her pillow with a 
hollow laugh, which deformed her swollen and convulsed 
features in a frightful manner. 

The king sank on a chair near the bed, and, clasping his 
hands over his face, he abandoned himself to despair. He 
saw, he comprehended all! He knew that she had intention- 
ally disfigured herself; that she had offered up her beauty to 
her love! For this reason she had so piteously pleaded with 
him !—for this reason had she clamored for pity!—pity for 
her youth, her future, her life’s happiness! Love and faith 
she had offered up! Greater, braver than Juliet, she had 
not given herself up to death, but to deformity! She had 
destroyed her body, in order to treasure love and constancy 
in her heart for her beloved! All this the king knew, and a 
profound and boundless sorrow for this young woman, so 
strong in her love, came over him. He bowed his head and 
wept bitterly.* 

* La partie de histoire de la Princesse Amélie qui a été la moins connue, 
et sur laquelle le public a flotté entre des opinions plus diverses et moins ad- 


missibles, c’est la cause de ses infirmités. eureusement constituée sans étre 
grande, elle n’aurait pas du savoir 4 les craindre,méme dans un &ge trés- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 477 


CHAPTER XI. 


BARBARINA, 


THE visit which the proud wife of the High-Chancellor 
Cocceji had made to the still prouder dancer, had brought 
the trembling and irresolute heart of Barbarina to a con- 
clusion. This heart, which had not been influenced by her 
own wishes or the eloquent prayers of her young lover, was 
wounded by the insane pride of Madame Coceeji, and forced 
to a final resolve. The visit was unfortunate, and its results 
exactly the opposite of her hopes. 

She had come to prove to Barbarina that she should not 
even dare to think of becoming the wife of her son. By her 
wild passion and abusive words she had so exasperated her, 
that she determined to do that for revenge which she had 
firmly refused to love. In flashing scorn she had sworn this 
to the proud wife of the high chancellor; and her honor and 
her pride demanded the fulfilment of her oath. 


avancé; et elle en a été atteinte bien avant Page, qui peut les faire craindre. 
Encore, ne les a-t-elle pas eues partiellement, elle en a été spontanément ac- 
cablée. Il n’est pas douteux qu’elle ne les ait cherchées. J’en donnerai pour 
preuve un fait qui est certain. A une époque ou elle avait les yeux inflam- 
més, M. Meckel, qui était son médecin, lui ordonna une composition liquide, 
qu'il fallait faire chauffer, pour en faire parvenir la vapeur jusqu’aux ye 
mais en tenant ce liquide aux moins & sept ou huit pouces de distance; et lui 
recommenda bien de ne pas l’approcher davantage ; et, cependant dés qu’elle 
eut cette composition, elle s’empressa de s’en frotter les & dagen ce qui produisit 
un si funeste effet, qu’elle courut le plus grand r de devenir aveugle ; et 
que depuis elle a toujours de lés yeux & moitié sortis de leurs orbites, et aussi 
hideux qu’ils avaient été beaux jusque la. Frédéric, & qui on n’osa pas dire 
combien la princesse avait de part 4 cette accident, n’a jamais eu depuis 
qu’une aversion trés-marquée et un vrai mépris pour M. Meckel, que la prin- 
cesse fut obligée de quitter, et qui n’en était pas moins un des meilleurs méde- 
cins de Berlin, et un des plus célébres anatomistes de l’Europe. 
Une autre infirmité plus étonnante, encore, c’est que cette princesse perdit 
nea totalemente la voix; aussi de sa faute 4 ce qui l’on a prétendu il lui 
tait difficile de parler, et trés-pénible aux autres de l’entendre. Sa voix 
n’était plus qu’un son vague, sourd et sépulcral, semblable 4 celui que forme 
une personne qui fait effort pour dire comme a voix basse qu’elle étrangle. 
e ne parlerai pas de sa téte chancelante et se soutenant a peine de ses 
onl gt pour lesquelles son corps wesw était un poids si lourd de ses 
ras; et de ses mains plus d’A moitié paralysé; mais quels puissants motifs 
ont pu amener cette belle et aimable princesse a se faire elle-méme un sort si 
triste? Quelle philosophie a pu lui donner assez de force pour le supporter, 
et ne pas s’en plaindre ? quelle énergie tous ces faits ne prouvent-ils pas ?— 
Thiébault, ii., 287-289. 


478 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


And now a fierce contest commenced between them— 
carried on by both parties with bitterness and energy. The 
high chancellor threatened his son with his curse. He sol- 
emnly declared he would disinherit him. Cocceji only 
loved the Barbarina the more glowingly; and, as his mother 
spoke to him of the dancer, and uttered passionate and 
abusive words, he replied respectfully but decisively that he 
would not listen to such accusations against the woman who 
was to be his wife, and must forbid them positively. 
Madame Cocceji was beside herself with rage; by her pray- 
ers and persuasions, she induced her husband to take refuge 
in the last and most violent resource that remained—in the 
power of arrest which the king had granted him. He re- 
solved to confine his son in the castle of Mt. Landsberg, and 
thus break the magical bands of Ariadne. 

One day, the Councillor Cocceji did not appear in the 
halls of justice, and no one knew what had become of him. 
The servants stated that a carriage stopped at his dwelling 
in the middle of the night; that General Haak with- two 
soldiers entered Cocceji’s room, and remained with him 
some time. They had then all entered the general’s carriage, 
and driven away. 

Cocceji had, however, found a secret opportunity to slip 
a piece of paper into the servant’s hand, and to whisper, 
“ Quick, to the signora! ” 

The faithful servant obeyed this order. The paper con-. 
tained only these words: “I am arrested; make all necessary 
preparations; expect me daily. As soon as I am free, our 
maarriage will take place.” 

Barbarina made her preparations. She undertook fre- 
quently little journeys, and sometimes remained away from 
Berlin several days. She bought a costly and beautiful 
house, to prove to the wife of the chancellor that she had 
no thought of leaving Berlin and returning to Italy. 

Some months went by. The king, who had yielded to 
the prayers of the Coccejis, and allowed them to arrest their 
son, would not consent to his longer confinement. He had 
no trial; had committed no offence against the laws or the 
king; was guilty of no other crime than wishing to marry 
the woman he loved. 


' FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 479 


So the young councillor was released from the castle of 
Landsberg. He returned to Berlin; and his first visit was 
not to his parents, but to Barbarina, who received him in 
her new house in Behren Street. 

A few hours later, a carriage stood before the door, which 
Barbarina, accompanied by her sister and Cocceji, entered, 
and drove rapidly away. No one knew where they went. 
Even the spies of the Coccejis, who continually watched the 
house of the dancer, could learn nothing from the servants 
who were left behind. A few days after, they brought the 
intelligence that Barbarina had returned; and the councillor 
dwelt with her in her new house; and the servants were 
commanded to eall the signora Madame Cocceji, as she was 
his well-beloved and trusted wife. 

The wife of the high chancellor laughed contemptuously 
at this narrative, and declared it to be only a coup de thédtre. 
Suddenly an equipage drove to the door. Somewhat curious, 
Madame Cocceji stepped to the window; she saw that the 
coachman and footmen were dressed in liveries glittering 
with gold, and that the panels of the carriage were orna- 
mented with the Cocceji coat-of-arms. 

The Signora Barbarina was to be seen at the window. 
Horrified, the wife of the chancellor stepped back; a servant 
entered with a card, which he handed her respectfully. 

“T am not at home; I receive no visits!” cried she, after 
looking at the card. The servant retired, and the carriage 
rolled away. 

“Yes, it is true. She has triumphed!” groaned the 
countess, still gazing at the card, which had these words: 
“Monsieur de Cocceji and Madame de Cocceji, née Barba- 
rina.”—“ But she shall not succeed; the Barbarina shall 
never be called my daughter; this marriage shall be set aside, 
the ceremony was not lawful, it is contrary to the laws of the 
land. Barbarina is a bourgeoise, and cannot wed a noble 
without the express consent of the king. I will throw myself 
at the feet of his majesty and implore him to annul this mar- 
riage!” 

Frederick was much exasperated, and inclined to yield to 
the entreaties of his high chancellor. A short time before, 
he had commanded the Catholic clergy not to perform any 


480 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI: OR, 


marriage ceremony without special permission and legitima- 
tion; and his anger was aroused at their daring to disobey 
him, and in secrecy and silence to marry Barbarina and 
Coceeji. 

He commanded his cabinet minister Uhden to ascertain 
by what right the dancer Barbarina dared to call herself 
Madame Cocceji, and, if she could establish her claim, he 
wished to be informed what priest had dared to bless the 
holy banns. He was resolved to punish him severely. 

The minister Uhden was a warm personal friend of the 
high chancellor, and more than willing, therefore, to carry 
out sternly the king’s commands. The next day he ordered 
Barbarina to appear before him, stating that he had the 
king’s permission to pronounce judgment upon her. 

When Barbarina read this order, she was lost in painful 
silence, and a profound melancholy was written upon her 
pale face. 

“What will you do, sister?” said Marietta. 

“T will go to the king!” replied Barbarina, rousing her- 
self. 

“ But the king is at Potsdam.” 

“Well, then, I will go to Potsdam. Order my carriage; 
I must go in a quarter of an hour.” 

“What shall I say to your husband when he returns 
home ? ” 

Barbarina looked at her steadily. “Tell him that 
Madame Cocceji has gone to Potsdam, to announce her mar- 
riage to the king, and ask him to acknowledge it.” 

“ Barbarina,” whispered her sister, “hear me! Your 
husband is troubled and sorrowful; he has confided in me. 
He says he fears you did not marry him from love, but for 
revenge, and that you love him not.” 

“Tam resolved to love him! I will learn how,” said she, 
sadly. “TI have a strong will, and my heart shall obey me! ”. 

She smiled, but her lovely face was overcast with grief, 
and Marietta’s eyes were filled with tears. 

Frederick was alone in his study in the castle of Pots- 
dam; he was busily engaged in writing. The door was 
lightly opened, and the Marquis d’Argens looked in. When 
he saw that the king had heard nothing, he beckoned to a 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 481 


lady who stood behind him to draw near. She entered the 
room silently and noiselessly; the marquis bowed to her, 
and, smiling kindly, he stepped back and closed the door. 

The lady, who up to this time had closely concealed her 
features, now threw back her veil, and exposed the pale but 
lovely countenance and flashing eyes of Barbarina. She 
gazed at the king with a mingled expression of happiness 
and pain. 

The king still heard nothing. Suddenly he was aroused 
by a low sigh; it seemed to him that a soft, sweet, long-silent 
voice whispered his name. He rose hastily and turned; 
Barbarina was kneeling at the door; it was that door before 
which, five years ago, she had kneeled bathed in tears and 
wild with despair. She was now, as then, upon her knees, 
weeping bitterly, and raising her hands importunately to the 
king, pleading for grace and pity. 

Frederick was at first pallid from surprise, and a frown 
was on his brow; but, as he looked upon her, and saw once 
more those great, dark, unfathomable eyes, a painful but 
sweet emotion overcame him; the cloud was lifted up, his 
countenance was illuminated and his eyes were soft and 
misty. 

With a kindly smile he drew near to Barbarina. “ Rise,” 
said he, and the tones of his voice made her heart beat wild- 
ly, and brought fresh tears to her eyes. “ You come strange- 
ly and unexpectedly, Barbarina, but you come with a beauti- 
ful retinue, with a crowd of sweet, fond remembrances—and 
I—of whom men say, ‘He has no religion ’—have at least 
the religion of memory. I cannot be angry with you, Barba- 
rina; rise, and tell me why you are here.” 

He bowed, and took her by the hands and raised her; 
and now, as she stood near him, lovely as ever, her great 
eyes glowing with warmth and passion, intoxicating the 
senses with her odorous beauty, the king felt anguish 7 in his 
heart which he had no words to express. 

They stood silently, side by side, their eyes fixed upon 
each other, Frederick holding Barbarina’s hand in his; they 
seemed to be whispering mysterious fairy tales to each 
other’s hearts. 

“TI see you, surrounded by smiling, sacred genii,” at last, 


482 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI: OR, 


said Frederick. “These are the genii of the rosy hours 
which have been. Ah, Barbarina, thus attended, your face 
seems to me as the face of an angel. Why were you not an 
angel, Barbarina? Why were you only a woman—a passion- 
ate woman, who, not satisfied with loving and being loved, 
wished also to govern; who was not content to be wor- 
shipped by the man, but wished to subject the king, whom 
you thus forced to forget his humanity, to trample upon and 
torture his own heart in order to remain king? Oh, Barba- 
rina, why were you this proud, exacting woman, rather than 
the angel which you now truly are?” 

She raised her hands, as if imploring him to be silent. 
“T understand all that now, I have though? of it, night and 
day; I kno-y and I confess that you acted right, sire. And 
now I am no longer an imperious woman, but a humiliated 
one! In my helplessness, with my pride subdued, I come 
to you! I come to you, sire, as one goes to God, weary and 
heavy laden. I come to you, as a poor sinner goes into God’s 
holy temple, to confess his sins; to have his burden light- 
ened; to pray for help that he may subdue his own heart! 
Oh, sire, this is a sacred, consecrated hour for me, and what 
I now say to you, only God and yourself may hear!” 

“ Speak, Barbarina, and may God hear and answer!” 

“ Sire, I come for help!” 

“ Ah, for help!” exclaimed the king, and a mocking ex- 
pression played upoa his lips. “I had forgotten. You wish 
to be called Madame Cocceji?” 

“T am called thus, sire,” said she, softly; “but they are 
about to declare my marriage illegal, and by the power of the 
law to set it aside.” 

“ And for this reason you come to me?” said the king. 
“You fear for your beautiful title?” 

“ Ah, sire, you do not think so pitifully of me as to sup- 
pose I care for a title?” 

“You married the Councillor Cocceji, then, from love?” 
said the king. ijn 

Barbarina looked at the king steadily. ‘‘ No, sire, I did 
not marry him for love.” 

“Why, then, did you marry him?” 

“To save myself, sire—to save myself, and because I 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 48% 


could not learn to forget. Your majesty has just said that 
you have the religion of memory. Sire, I am the anguish- 
stricken, tortured, fanatical priestess of the same faith. I have 
lain daily before her altar, I have scourged my heart with 
remembrances, and blinded my eyes with weeping. At last 
a day came in which I roused myself. I resolved to abandon 
my altar, to flee from the past, and teach my heart to forget. 
I went to England, accepted Lord Stuart’s proposals, and 
resolved to be his wife. It was in vain, wholly in vain. 
Whatsoever my trembling lips might say, my heart lay ever 
bleeding before the altar of my memory. The past followed 
me over the wide seas, she beckoned and greeted me with 
mysterious sighs and pleadings; she called out to me, with 
two great, wondrous eyes, clear and blue as the heavens, 
unfathomable as the sea! These eyes, sire, called me back, 
and I could not resist them. I felt that I would rather die 
by them than relinquish them forever. So, on my wedding- 
day, I fled from England, and returned to Berlin. The old 
magic came over me; also, alas! the old grief. I felt that I 
must do something to save myself, if I would not go mad. 
I resolved to bind my wayward heart in chains, to make 
my love a prisoner to duty, and silence the outcries of my 
soul! But I still wavered. Then came Madame Cocceji. 
By her insolent bearing she roused my pride, until it over- 
shadowed even my despair, and I heard no other voice. So, 
sire, I married Cocceji! I have taken refuge in this mar- 
riage, as in a safe haven, where I shall rest peacefully and 
fear no storm. 

“But, my king, struggle as I may to begin a new life, 
the religion of memory will not relinquish her priestess; 
she extends her mystical hands over me, and my poor heart 
shouts back to her against my will. Sire, save me! I have 
fled to this marriage as one flies to a cloister-cell, to escape 
the sweet love of this world. Oh, sire, do not allow them to 
drive me from this refuge; leave me in peace to God and my 
duty! Alas! my soul has repented, she lies wearied and ill 
at your feet. Help her, heal her, I implore you!” 

She was silent. She extended her hands toward the 
king. He looked at her sadly, kindly took her hands in his, 
and pressed his lips upon them. 

81 


484 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI: OR, 


“ Barbarina,” said he, in a rich, mellow voice—* Barba- 
rina, I thank you. God and the king have heard you. You 
say that you are the priestess of the religion of remem- 
brance; well, then, I am her priest, and I confess to you 
that I, also, have passed many nights in anguish be- 
fore her altar. Life demands heavy sacrifices, and more 
from kings than from other men. Once in my life I made 
so rich an offering to my royalty that it seemed life could 
have no more of bitterness in store. The thoughtless and 
fools consider life a pleasure. But I, Barbarina, I say, that 
life is a duty. Let us fulfil our duties.” 

“Yes, we will go and fulfil them,” said she, with flashing 
eyes. “Sire, I will go to fulfil mine; but I am weak, and 
have yet one more favor to ask. There is no cup of Lethe 
from which men drink forgetfulness, and yet I must forget. 
I must cast a veil over the past. Help me, sire—I must 
leave Berlin! Banish my husband to another city. It will 
be an open grave for me; but I will struggle to plant that 
grave with flowers, whose beauty and perfume shall rejoice 
and make glad the heart of my husband!” 

“T grant your request,” said the king, sadly. 

“T thank you, sire; and now, farewell! ” 

“Farewell, Barbarina! ” 

He took again her hands in his, and looked long into her 
fair, enchanting face, now glowing with enthusiasm. Neither 
spoke one word; they took leave of each other with soft 
glances and melancholy sighs. 

“Farewell, sire!” said Barbarina, after a long pause, 
withdrawing her hands from the king’s and stepping toward 
the door. The king followed her. 

“Give me your hand,” said he, “I will go with you!” 

Frederick led her into the adjoining room, in which there 
were two doors. One led to a small stairway, which opened 
upon a side-door of the castle; the other to the great saloon, 
in which the cavaliers and followers of the king were wont 
to assemble. 

Barbarina had entered by the small stairway, and now 
turned her steps in that direction. “No, not that way,” said 
Frederick. “ My staff await me in the saloon. It is the 
hour for parade. I will show you my court.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 485 


Barbarina thanked him, and followed silently to the 
other door. The generals, in their glittering uniforms, and 
the cavaliers, with their embroidered vests and brilliant 
orders, bowed profoundly, and no one dared to manifest the 
surprise he felt as the king and Barbarina entered. 

Frederick led Barbarina into the middle of the saloon, 
and letting go her hand, he said aloud: “ Madame, I have the 
honor to commend myself to you. Your wish shall be ful- 
filled. Your husband shall be President of Glogau! it shall 
be arranged to-day.” The king cast a proud and searching 
glance around the circle of his cavaliers, until they rested 
upon the master of ceremonies. “ Baron Péllnitz, conduct 
Madame Presidentess Cocceji to her carriage.” 

Péllnitz stumbled forward and placed himself with a 
profound salutation at Barbarina’s side. 

Frederick bowed once more to Barbarina; she took the 
arm of Baron Pdllnitz. Silence reigned in the saloon as 
Barbarina withdrew. 

The king gazed after her till she had entirely disap- 
‘peared; then, breathing heavily, he turned to his generals 
and said: “ Messieurs, it is time for parade.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


INTRIGUES. 


VoLTAIRE was faithful to his purpose: he made use of 
his residence in Prussia and the favor of the king to in- 
crease his fortune, and to injure and degrade, as far as 
possible, all those for whom the king manifested the slight- 
est partiality. He not only added to his riches by the most 
abject niggardliness in his mode of life, thereby adding his 
pension to his capital, but by speculation in Saxon bonds, 
for which, in the beginning, he employed the aid of the Jew 
Hirsch. We have seen that he sent him to Dresden to pur- 
chase eighteen thousand thalers’ worth of bonds, and gave 
him three drafts for that purpose. 


486 BERLIN: AND SANS-SOUCI: OR, 


One of these was drawn upon the banker Ephraim. He 
thus learned of Voltaire’s speculation, and, as a cunning 
trafficker, he resolved to turn this knowledge to his own ad- 
vantage. He went to Voltaire, and proposed to give him 
twenty thousand thalers’ worth of Saxon bonds, and demand 
no payment for them till Voltaire should receive their full 
value from Dresden. The only profit he desired was Vol- 
taire’s good word and influence for him with the king. 

This was a most profitable investment, and the great 
French writer could not resist it. He took the bonds; 
promised his protection and favor, and immediately sent 
to Paris to protest the draft he had given the Jew Hirsch. 

Poor Hirsch had already bought the bonds in Dresden, 
and he was now placed in the most extreme embarrassment, 
not only by the protested draft, but by Voltaire’s refusing to 
receive the bonds and to pay for them. 

Voltaire tried to appease him; promised to repair his 
loss, and yet further to indemnify him. He declared he 
would purchase some of the diamonds left in his care by 
Hirsch, and he really did this; he bought three thousand 
thalers’ worth of diamonds and returned the rest to Hirsch. 
A few days after he sent to him for a diamond cross and a 
few rings which he proposed to buy. Hirsch sent them, and 
not hearing from either the diamonds or the money, he went 
to Voltaire to get either the one or the other. 

Voltaire received him furiously; declared that the dia- 
monds which he had purchased were false, and in order to 
reimburse himself he had retained the others and would 
never return them! In wild rage he continued to raise his 
doubled fist to heaven in condemnation, or held it under 
the nose of the poor terrified Jew; and to crown all, he tore 
from his finger another diamond ring, and pushed him from 
the door. 

And now the Jew indeed was to be pitied. He demanded 
of the courts the restoration of his diamonds, and payment 
for the Saxon bonds. 

A wearisome and vexatious process was the result. Vol- 
taire’s plots and intrigues involved the case more and more, 
and he brought the judges themselves almost to despair. 
Voltaire declared that the Jew had sold him false diamonds. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 487 


The Jew asserted that the false diamonds exhibited by Vol- 
taire were not those Voltaire had purchased of him, and 
which the jeweller Reclam had valued. No one was present 
at this trade, so there were no witnesses. The judges were, 
therefore, obliged to confine themselves to administering the 
oath to Voltaire, as he would not consent to any compromise. 
But he resisted the taking of the oath also. 

“What!” said he, “I must swear upon the Bible; upon 
this book written in such wretched Latin! If it were Homer 
or Virgil, I would have nothing against it.” 

When the judge assured him, that if he refused the oath, 
they would administer it to the Jew, he exclaimed: “ What! 
you will allow the oath of this miserable creature, who cruci- 
fied the Saviour, to decide this question ? ” 

He took the oath at last, and as the Jew Ephraim swore 
at the same time that Voltaire had shown him the diamonds, 
and he had at once declared them to be false, the Jew Hirsch 
lost his case, and Voltaire triumphed. He wrote the follow- 
ing letter to Algarotti: 

“Tf one had listened to my envious enemies, they would 
have heard that I was about to lose a great process, and that 
I had defrauded an honest Jewish banker. The king, who 
naturally takes the part of the Old Testament, would have 
looked upon me with disfavor. I should have been lost, 
and Fréron would have derisively declared that I sickened 
and died of rage. Instead of this, I still live; and during 
my last illness the king manifested such warm and affection- 
ate interest in me, that I should be the most ungrateful of 
men if I do not remain a few months longer with him! I am 
the only animal of my race whom he has ever lodged in his 
castle in Berlin; and when he left for Potsdam, and I could 
not follow him, his equipage, cooks, ete., remained for my 
use. He had my furniture and other effects removed to a 
beautiful country-seat near Sans-Souci, which was, for the 
time being, mine. Besides this, a lodging was reserved for 
me at Potsdam, where I slept a part of every week. In 
short, if I were not three hundred leagues away from you, 
whom I love so tenderly, and if I were in good health, I 
would be the happiest of men! I ask pardon, therefore, of 
my enemies; these men of small wit; these sly foxes, who 


488 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI: OR, 


cry out because I have a pension of twenty thousand francs, 
and they have nothing! I wear a golden cross on my breast, 
while they have not even a handkerchief in their pockets. 
I wear a great blue cross, set round with diamonds, around 
my neck; for this they would strangle me. These miserable 
creatures ought to know that I would cheerfully give up the 
cross, the key, the pension; these things would cost me no 
regret, but I am bound and attached to this great man, who 
in all things strives to promote my welfare.” * 

But this paradise of bliss, so extravagantly praised by 
Voltaire, was not entirely without clouds, and some fierce 
storms had been necessary to clear the atmosphere. 

The king was very angry with Voltaire, and wrote the 
following letter to him from Potsdam: 

“T knew how to maintain peace in my house till your 
arrival; and I must confess to you, that if you continue to 
intrigue and cabal, you will be no longer welcome. I prefer 
kind and gentle people, who are not passionate and tragic 
in their daily life. In case you should resolve to live as a 
philosopher, I will rejoice to see you! But if you give full 
sway to your passion and are hot-brained with everybody, 
you will do better to remain in Berlin. Your arrival in 
Potsdam will give me no pleasure.” + 

Only after Voltaire had solemnly sworn to preserve the 
peace, was he allowed to return to Potsdam. Keeping the 
peace was not, however, in harmony with Voltaire’s charac- 
ter; plotting was a necessity with him; he could not re- 
sist it. 

After he had succeeded in setting Arnaud aside and com- 
pelling him to leave Berlin, he turned his rage and sarcasm 
against the other friends of the king. One of them was 
removed by death. This was La Mettrie; he partook immod- 
erately of a truffle-pie at the house of the French ambassador, 
Lord Tyrconnel, and died in consequence of a blood-letting, 
which he ordered himself, in opposition to the opinion of his 
physician. He laughingly said, “I will accustom my indi- 
gestion to blood-letting.” He died at the first experiment. 
His death was in harmony with his life and his principles. 


* Voltaire, Giuvres, p. 442. 
+ GEuvres Posthumes, p. 338. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 489 


He dismissed the priest rudely who came to him uncalled, 
and entreated him to be reconciled to God. Convulsed by 
his last agonies, he called out, “O my God! O Jesus Ma- 
ria!” 

“He repents!” cried the delighted priest; “he calls 
upon God and His blessed Son.” 

“ No, no, no, father!” stammered La Mettrie, with dying 
lips; “that was only a form of speech.”* 

Voltaire’s envy and jealousy were now turned against the 
Marquis d’Argens, who was indeed the dearest friend of the 
king. At first he tried to prejudice the king against him; 
he betrayed to him that the marquis had privately married 
the actress Barbe Cochois. 

The king was at the moment very angry, but the prayers 
of Algarotti, and the regret of the poor marquis, reconciled 
him at last; he not only forgave, but he allowed the mar- 
quise to dwell at Sans-Souci with her husband. 

When Voltaire found that he could not deprive the mar- 
quis of the king’s favor, he resolved to occasion him some 
trouble, and to wound his vanity and sensibility. He knew 
that the marquis was an ardent admirer of the French writer 
Jean Baptiste Rousseau. One day Voltaire entered the 
room of the marquis, and said, in a sad, sympathetic tone, 
that he felt it his duty to undeceive him as to Jean Baptiste 
Rousseau, to prove to him that his love and respect for the 
great writer were returned with the blackest ingratitude. 
He had just received from his correspondent at Paris an 
epigram which Rousseau had made upon the marquis. It 
was true the epigram was only handed about in manuscript, 
and Rousseau swore every one who read it not to betray him; 
he was showing it, however, and it was thought it would be 
published. He, Voltaire, had commissioned his correspon- 
dent to do every thing in his power to prevent the publication 
of this epigram; or, if this took place, to use every means to 
excite the public, as well as the friends of the marquis, 
against Rousseau, because of his shameful treachery. 

At all events, this epigram, which Voltaire now read aloud 
to the marquis, and which described him as the Wandering 
Jew, was as malicious as it was mischievous and slanderous. 

* Nicolai, p. 20. 


490 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI: OR, 


The good marquis was deeply wounded, and swore to take a 
great revenge on Rousseau. Voltaire triumphed. 

But, after a few days, he suspected that the whole was an 
artifice of Voltaire. In accordance with his open, noble 
character, he wrote immediately to Rousseau, made his com- 
plaint, and asked if he had written the epigram. 

Rousseau swore that he was not the author, but he was . 
persuaded that Voltaire had written it; he had sent some 
copies to Paris, and his friends were seeking to spread it 
abroad.* 

The marquis was on his guard, and did not communicate 
this news to Voltaire. He resolved to escape from these 
assaults and intrigues quietly; with his young wife he. 
made a journey to Paris, and did not return till Voltaire 
had left Berlin forever. 

The most powerful and therefore the most waived of 
the enemies against whom Voltaire now turned in his rage, 
was the president of the Berlin Academy, Maupertius. Vol- 
taire could never forgive him for daring to shine in his 
presence; for being the president of an academy of which 
he, Voltaire, was only a simple member. Above all this, 
the king loved him, and praised his extraordinary talent and 
scholarship. Voltaire only watched for an opportunity to 
clutch this dangerous enemy, and the occasion soon pre- 
sented itself. 

Maupertius had just published his “ Lettres Philoso- 
phiques,” in which it must be confessed there were passages 
which justified Voltaire’s assertion that Maupertius was at 
one time insane, and was confined for some years in a mad- 
house. at Montpellier. Maupertius proposed in these letters 
that a Latin city should be built, and this majestic and beau- 
tiful tongue brought to life again. He proposed, also, that 
a hole should be dug to the centre of the earth, in order to 
discover its condition and quality; also that the brain of 
Pythagoras should be searched for and opened, in order to 
ascertain the nature of the soul. 

These ridiculous and fabulous propositions Voltaire re- 
plied to under the name of Dr. Akakia; he asserted that he 
was only anxious to heal the unhappy Maupertius. This 

* Thiébault. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 491 


publication was written in Voltaire’s sharpest wit and his 
most biting, glittering irony, and was calculated to make 
Maupertius absurd in the eyes of the whole world. 

The king, to whom Voltaire had shown his manuscript, 
felt this; and although he had listened to the “ Akakia” 
with the most lively pleasure, and often interrupted the read- 
ing by loud laughter and applause, he asked Voltaire to de- 
stroy the manuscript. He was not willing that the man who 
stood at the head of his academy, and whom he had once 
called “ the light of science,” should be held up to the laugh- 
ter and mockery of the world. 

“T ask this sacrifice from you as a proof of your friend- 
ship for me, and your self-control,” said the king, earnestly. 
“T am tired of this everlasting disputing and wrangling; 
I will have peace in my house; I do not know how long we 
will have peace in the world. It seems to me that on the 
horizon of politics heavy clouds are beginning to tower up; 
let us therefore take care that our literary horizon is clear 
and peaceable.” | 

“ Ah, sire!” cried Voltaire, “when you look at me with 
your great, luminous eyes, I feel capable of plucking my 
heart from my breast and casting it into the fire for you. 
How gladly, then, will I offer up these stinging lines to a 
wish of my Solomon!” 

“ Will you indeed sacrifice ‘ Akakia?’” said the king, 
joyfully. 

“Took here! this is my manuscript, you know my hand- 
writing, you see that the ink is scarcely dry, the work just 
completed. Well, then, see now, sire, what I make of the 
‘ Akakia.’” He took the manuscript and cast it into the fire 
before which they were both sitting. 

“What are you doing?” cried the king, hastily; and, 
without regarding the flames, he stretched out his hand to 
seize the manuscript. 

Voltaire laughed heartily, seized the tongs, and pushed 
it farther into the flames. “ Sire, sire, I am the devil, and I 
will not allow my victim to be torn from me. My ‘ Akakia’ 
was only worthy of the lower regions; you condemned it, 
and therefore it must suffer. I, the devil, command it to 
burn.” 


492 BEMLIN AND SANS-SOUCI: OR, 


“ But I, the angel of mercy, will redeem the poor ‘ Aka- 
kia,’” cried the king, trying to obtain possession of the 
tongs. “ Truly this ‘ Akakia’ is too lusty and witty a boy to 
be laid, like the Emperor Guatimozin, upon the gridiron. 
It was enough to deny him a public exhibition—it was not 
necessary to destroy him.” 

“Sire, I am a poor, weak man! If I kept the living 
‘ Akakia’ by my side, it would be a poisonous weapon, which 
I would hurl one day surely at the head of Maupertius. It 
is therefore better it should live only in my remembrance, 
and be only an imaginary dagger, with which I will some- 
times tickle the haughty lord-president.” 

“ And you have really no copy?” said the king, whose 
distrust was awakened by Voltaire’s too ready compliance. 
“Was this the only manuscript of the ‘ Akakia?’” 

“ Sire, if you do not believe my word, send your servants 
and let them search my room. Here are my keys; they 
shall bring you every scrap of written paper; your majesty 
will then be convinced. I entreat you to do this, as you will 
not believe my simple word.” 

The king fixed his eyes steadfastly upon Voltaire. “I be- 
lieve you. It would be unworthy of you to deceive me, 
and unworthy of me to mistrust you. I believe you; but I 
will make assurance doubly sure. The ‘ Akakia’ is no longer 
upon paper, but it is in your head, and I fear your head 
more than I do all the paper in the world. Promise me, 
Voltaire, that as long as you live with me you will engage 
in no written strifes or controversies—that you will not 
employ your bitter irony against the government, or against 
the authors.” 

“T promise that cheerfully! ” 

“Will you do so in writing?” 

Voltaire stepped to the table and took the pen. “ Will 
your majesty dictate?” 

The king dictated, and Voltaire wrote with a rapid but 
firm hand: “I promise your majesty that so long as you 
allow me to lodge in your castle, I will write against no one, 
neither against the French government nor any of the for- 
eign ambassadors, nor the celebrated authors. I will con- 
stantly manifest a proper respect and regard to them. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 493 


I will make no improper use of the letters of the king. I 
will in all things bear myself as becomes an historian and a 
scholar, who has the honor to be gentleman in waiting to 
the King of Prussia, and to associate with distinguished 
persons.” * 

“Will you sign this?” said the king. 

“T will not only sign it,” said Voltaire, “but I will add 
something to its force. Listen, your majesty.—I will strict- 
ly obey all your majesty’s commands, and to do so gives me 
no trouble. I entreat your majesty to believe that I never 
have written any thing against any government—least of all 
against that under which I was born, and which I only left 
because I wished to close my life at the feet of your majesty. 
I am historian of France. In the discharge of this duty, I 
have written the history of Louis the Fourteenth, and the 
campaigns of Louis the Fifteenth. My voice and my pen 
were ever consecrated to my fatherland, as they are now sub- 
ject to your command. I entreat you to look into my liter- 
ary contest with Maupertius, and to believe that I give it 
up cheerfully to please you, sire; and because I will in all 
things submit to your will. I will also be obedient to your 
majesty in this. I will enter into no literary contest, and I 
beg you, sire, to believe that, in the hour of death, I will feel 
the same reverence and attachment for you which filled my 
heart the day I first appeared at your court. VOLTAIRE.” 


The king took the paper, and read it over, then fixed his 
eyes steadily upon Voltaire’s lowering face. “It is well! I 
thank you,” said Frederick, nodding a friendly dismissal to 
Voltaire. He left the room, and the king looked after him 
long and thoughtfully. 

“T do not trust him; he was too ready to burn the manu- 
script. And yet, he gave me his word of honor.” 

Voltaire returned to his room, and, now alone and unob- 
served, a malicious, demoniac exultation was written on his 
face. “I judged rightly,” said he, with a grimace; “the 
king wished to sacrifice me to Maupertius. I think this was 
a master-stroke. I have truly burned the original manu- 
script, but a copy of it was sent to Leyden eight days since. 

* Preus, “ Friedrich der Grosse.” 


- 


494 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI: OR, 


While the king thinks I am such a good-humored fool as to 
yield the contest to the proud beggar Maupertius, my 
‘ Akakia’ will be published in Leyden. Soon it will resound 
through the world, and show how genius binds puffed-up 
folly, which calls itself geniality, to the pillory.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE LAST STRUGGLE. 


It was Christmas eve! The streets were white with 
snow; crowds of people were rushing through the castle 
square, seeking for Christmas-trees, and little presents for 
their children. There were, however, fewer purchasers than 
usual. The small traders stood idle at the doors of the 
booths, and looked discontentedly at the swarms of laughing 
men, who passed by them, and rushed onward to the Gens 
d’Armen Market. 

A rare spectacle, exhibited for the first time during the 
reign of Frederick, was to be seen at the market to-day. 
A funeral pyre was erected, and the executioner stood near 
in his red livery. What!—shall the holy evening be sol- 
emnized by an execution? Was it for this that thousands 
of curious men were rushing onward to the scaffold? that 
groups of elegant ladies and cavaliers were crowded to 
the open windows? 

Yes, there was to be an execution—a bloodless one, which 
would occasion no bodily suffering to the delinquent. The 
eyes of this great mass of people were not directed to the 
scaffold, but to the window of a large house on Tauben 
Street. 

At this open window stood a pale old man, with hollow 
cheeks and bent, infirm form; but you. saw by the proud 
bearing of his head, and his ironical, contemptuous smile, 
that his spirit was unconquered. His whole face glowed 
with flaming scorn; and his great, fiery eyes flashed amongst 
the crowd, greeting here and there an acquaintance. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 495 


This man was Voltaire—Voltaire, who had come to wit- 
ness the execution of his “ Akakia,” which had been pub- 
lished in Leyden, and scattered abroad throughout Berlin. 
Voltaire had broken his written and verbal promise, his word 
of honor; and the king, exasperated to the utmost by this 
dishonorable conduct, had determined to punish him openly. 
And now, amidst the breathless silence of the crowd, a func- 
tionary of the king read the sentence—that sentence which 
condemned the “ Akakia,” that malicious and slanderous 
publication holding up the noble, virtuous, and renowned 
scholar Maupertius to the general mockery of Paris. 

Voltaire stood calm and smiling at the open window. 
He saw the executioner throw great piles of his “ Akakia” 
into the fire. He saw the mad flames whirling up into the 
heavens, and his countenance was clear, and his eyes did not 
lose their lustre. Higher and higher flashed the flames! 
broader and blacker the pillars of smoke! but Voltaire 
smiled peacefully. Conversation and laughter were silenced 
—the crowd looked on breathlessly. 

Suddenly a loud and derisive laugh was heard, and a 
powerful voice cried out: “ Look at the spirit of Maupertius, 
which is dissolving into smoke! Oh, the thick, black smoke! 
How much wood consumed in vain! The ‘ Akakia’ is im- 
mortal—you burn him here, but he still lives, and the whole 
world will know and appreciate him. That which is born 
for immortality can never be burned.” * 

So said Voltaire, as he dashed the window down, and 
stepped back in the room. 

“ Farewell, Herr von Francheville,” said he, quietly. “I 
thank you for having allowed me to be present at my execu- 
tion. You see I have borne it well; all do not die who are 
durnt. Farewell, I must go to the castle. I have impor- 
tant business there.” 

With youthful agility he entered his carriage. The peo- 
ple, who recognized him, shouted after him joyfully. He 
passed through the crowd with an air of triumph, and they 
greeted him with kindly interest. 

The smile disappeared from his face when he entered his 
room at the castle, and the scorn and tumult of his heart 

* Thiébault, p. 265. 


496 BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI: OR, 


were plainly written on his countenance. He seized his port- 
folio, and drew from it the pension patent signed by the 
king; tore from his neck the blue ribbon, with the great 
badge surrounded with brilliants, and cut the little key 
from his court dress, which his valet had laid out ready for 
his toilet. Of these things he made a little packet, which 
he sealed up, and wrote upon it these lines: 


“ Je les regus avec tendresse, 
Je vous les rends avec douleur; 
C’est ainsi qu’un amant, dans son secu fureur, ' 
Rend le portrait de sa maitresse.” 


He called his servant, and commanded him to take this 
packet to the king. 

Voltaire did not hesitate a moment. He felt not the 
least regret for the great pension which he was relinquish- 
ing. He felt that there was no other course open to him; 
that his honor and his pride demanded it. At this moment, 
his expression was noble. He was the proud, independent, 
free man. The might of genius reigned supreme, and sub- 
dued the calculating and the pitiful for a brief space. This 
exalted moment soon passed away, and the cunning, miserly, 
calculating old man again asserted his rights. Voltaire re- 
membered that he had not only given up orders and titles, 
but gold, and measureless anguish and raging pain took pos- 
session of him. He hastened to his writing-desk, and with a 
trembling hand he wrote a pleading letter to the king, in 
which he begged for pardon and grace—for pity in his un- 
happy circumstances and his great sorrow. 

The king was merciful. He took pity on the old friend- 
ship which lay in ruins at his feet. He felt for it that sort 
of reverence which a man entertains for the grave of a lost 
friend. He returned the “ bagatelles” with a few friendly 
lines to Voltaire, and invited him to accompany him to 
Potsdam. Voltaire accepted the invitation, and the journals 
announced that the celebrated French writer had again re- 
ceived his orders, titles, and pension, and gone to Potsdam 
with the king. 

But this seeming peace was of short duration. Friend- 
ship was dead, and anger and bitterness had taken the place 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 497 


of consideration and love. Voltaire felt the impossibility of 
remaining longer. Impelled by the cold glance, the ironical 
and contemptuous laughter of the king, he begged at last 
for his dismissal, which the king did not refuse him. 

One day, when Frederick was upon the parade-ground, 
surrounded by his generals, he was told that Voltaire asked 
permission to be allowed to take leave. 

The king turned quietly towards him. “ Ah, Monsieur 
Voltaire, you are resolved, then, to leave us?” 

“Sire, indispensable business and my state of health 
compel me to do so,” said Voltaire. 

The king bowed slightly. “Monsieur, I wish you a 
happy journey.” * Then turning to the old Field-Marshal 
Ziethen, he recommenced his conversation with him. — Vol- 
taire made a profound bow, and entered the post-chaise 
which was waiting for him. 

So they parted, and their friendship was in ashes; and 
no after-protestations could bring it to life. The great king 
and the great poet parted, never to meet again. 


* Thiébault, p. 271. 


(41) 


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